ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


DOOKS  are  men  of  higher  stature, 
°      And    the    only    men   that    speak   aloud    for 
future  times  to  hear.— ROBERT  BROWNING. 


X>     *"      X" 

*&]*&  ^ 

&w 

\*Jfr™ 


THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

A  story  of  a  caste-bound  family  suddenly  swept 
bto  the  whirlpool  of  democracy  and  indrndu- 
ality  "Mr.  Walpole  reveals  the  depth,  the 
,ruth,  the  tenderness  of 


THE    RISING    CITY:    II 
THE  GREEN  MIRROR 


HUGH      WALPOLE 


NOVELS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

STUDIES  IN  PLACE 
THE  DARE  FOREST 
THE  GOLDEN  SCARECROW 
THE  WOODEN  HORSE 
MARADICK  AT  FORTY 
THE  GODS  AND  MR.  PERRIN 

TWO  PROLOGUES 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 
FORTITUDE 

THE  RISING  CITY 

1.    THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 
*.    THE  GREEN  MIRROR 


THE 

GREEN  MIRROR 

A  QUIET  STORY 

BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 

AUTHOR  OP  "THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE,"  "FORTITUDE,^ 
"THE  DARK  FOREST,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN  THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


College 
Library, 

PR 


TO 
DOROTHY 

WHO  FIRST  INTRODUCED  ME 

TO 
KATHERINE 


1^60355 


"There's  the  feather  bed  element  here  brother,  acht 
and  not  only  that!  There's  an  attraction  here — here 
you  have  the  end  of  the  world,  an  anchorage,  a  quiet 
haven,  the  navel  of  the  earth,  the  three  fishes  that  are 
the  foundation  of  the  world,  the  essence  of  pancakes,  of 
savoury  fish-pies,  of  the  evening  samovar,  of  soft  \sighs 
and  warm  shawls,  and  hot  stoves  to  sleep  on — as  snug 
as  though  you  were  dead,  and  yet  you're  alive — the 
advantages  of  both  at  once." 

DOSTOEFFSKY. 


vi 


MY  DEAE  DOEOTHY, 

As  I  think  you  know,  this  book  was  finished  in  the  month 
of  August,  1914.  I  did  not  look  at  it  again  until  I  revised 
it  during  my  convalescence  after  an  illness  in  the  autumn  of 
1915. 

We  are  now  in  a  world  very  different  from  that  with  which 
this  story  deals,  and  it  must,  I  am  afraid,  appear  slow  in 
development  and  uneventful  in  movement,  belonging,  in  style 
and  method  and  subject,  to  a  day  that  seems  to  us  already 
old-fashioned. 

But  I  will  frankly  confess  that  I  have  too  warm  a  personal 
affection  for  Katherine,  Philip,  Henry  and  Millicent  to  be 
able  to  destroy  utterly  the  signs  and  traditions  of  their  exist- 
ence, nor  can  I  feel  my  book  to  be  quite  old-fashioned  when 
the  love  of  England,  which  I  have  tried  to  make  the  text  of 
it,  has  in  many  of  us  survived  so  triumphantly  changes  and 
catastrophes  and  victories  that  have  shaken  into  ruin  almost 
every  other  faith  we  held. 

Let  this  be  my  excuse  for  giving  you,  with  my  constant 
affection,  this  uneventful  story. 

Yours  always, 

HUGH  WALPOLE. 

PETROGBAD, 

May  llth,  1917. 


Vli 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I:    THE  RAID 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  CEREMONY 13 

II    THE  WINTER  AFTERNOON 32 

III  KATHERINE 45 

IV  THE  FOREST 64 

V    THE  FINEST  THING .     .     .  81 

VI    THE  SHOCK  106 


BOOK  II:    THE  FEATHER  BED 

I    KATHERINE  IN  LOVE 129 

II    MRS.  TRENCHARD 139 

III  LIFE  AND  HENRY 164 

IV  GARTH  IN  ROSELANDS 195 

V    THE  FEAST 218 

VI  SUNDAY 241 

VII  ROCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR 279 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

BOOK  III:  KATHERINE  AND  ANNA 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    KATHERINE  ALONE 299 

II    THE  MIRROR 322 

III  ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD 344 

IV  THE  WILD  NIGHT 366 

V    THE  TRENCHARDS 384 

VI    THE  CEREMONY  .  405 


BOOK  I 
THE  RAID 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  CBEEMOirr 


J  fog  had  swallowed  up  the  house,  and  the  house  had 
submitted.  So  thick  was  this  fog  that  the  towers  of 
Westminster  Abbey,  the  river,  and  the  fat  complacency  of  the 
church  in  the  middle  of  the  Square,  even  the  three  Plane 
Trees  in  front  of  the  old  gate  and  the  heavy  old-fashioned 
porch  had  all  vanished  together,  leaving  in  their  place,  the 
rattle  of  a  cab,  the  barking  of  a  dog,  isolated  sounds  that 
ascended,  plaintively,  from  a  lost,  a  submerged  world. 

The  House  had,  indeed,  in  its  time  seen  many  fogs  for  it  had 
known  its  first  one  in  the  days  of  Queen  Annp  and  even  then 
it  had  yielded,  without  surprise  and  without  curiosity,  to  its 
tyranny.  On  the  brighest  of  days  this  was  a  solemn,  unenter- 
prising unimaginative  building,  standing  four-square  to  all 
the  winds,  its  windows  planted  stolidly,  securely,  its  vigorous 
propriety  well  suited  to  its  safe,  unagitated  surroundings. 
Its  faded  red  brick  had  weathered  many  London  storms  and 
would  weather  many  more:  that  old,  quiet  Square,  with  its 
uneven  stones,  its  church,  and  its  plane-trees,  had  the  Abbey, 
the  Houses  of  Parliament,  the  river  for  its  guardians  .  .  . 
the  skies  might  fall,  the  Thames  burst  into  a  flaming  fire, 
Rundle  Square  would  not  stir  from  its  tranquillity. 

The  old  house — No.  5,  Rundle  Square — had  for  its  most 
charming  feature  its  entrance.  First  came  an  old  iron  gate 
guarded,  on  either  side,  by  weatherbeaten  stone  pillars.  Then 
a  cobbled  path,  with  little  green  lawns  to  right  and  left  of 

13 


14  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

it,  ran  to  the  door  whose  stolidity  was  crowned  with  an  old 
porch  of  dim  red  brick.  This  was  unusual  enough  for  Lon- 
don, but  there  the  gate,  the  little  garden,  the  Porch  had  stood 
for  some  hundreds  of  years,  and  that  Progress  that  had  al- 
ready its  throttling  fingers  about  London's  neck,  had,  as  yet, 
left  Rundle  Square  to  its  staid  propriety. 

Westminster  abides,  like  a  little  Cathedral  town,  at  the 
heart  of  London.  One  is  led  to  it,  through  Whitehall,  through 
Victoria  Street,  through  Belgravia,  over  Westminster  Bridge 
with  preparatory  caution.  The  thunder  of  London  sinks, 
as  the  traveller  approaches,  dying  gradually  as  though  the 
spirit  of  the  town  warned  you,  with  his  finger  at  his  lip. 
To  the  roar  of  the  traffic  there  succeeds  the  solemn  striking 
of  Big  Ben,  the  chiming  of  the  Abbey  Bells ;  so  narrow  and 
winding  are  many  of  the  little  streets  that  such  traffic  as 
penetrates  them  proceeds  slowly,  cautiously,  almost  sleepily; 
there  are  old  buildings  and  grass  squares,  many  clergymen, 
schoolboys  in  black  gowns  and  battered  top  hats,  and  at  the 
corners  one  may  see  policemen,  motionless,  somnolent,  sta- 
tioned one  supposes,  to  threaten  disturbance  or  agitation. 

There  is,  it  seems,  no  impulse  here  to  pile  many  more 
events  upon  the  lap  of  the  day  than  the  poor  thing  can  de- 
cently hold.  Behind  the  windows  of  Westminster  life  is  pass- 
ing, surely,  with  easy  tranquillity;  the  very  door-bells  are, 
many  of  them,  old  and  comfortable,  unsuited  to  any  frantic 
ringing ;  there  does  not  sound,  through  every  hour,  the  whir- 
ring clang  of  workmen  flinging,  with  eager  haste,  into  the 
reluctant  air,  hideous  and  contemptuous  buildings ;  dust  does1 
not  rise  in  blinding  clouds  from  the  tortured  corpses  of  old 
and  happy  houses.  .  .  .  Those  who  live  here  live  long. 

No.  5,  Rundle  Square  then,  had  its  destiny  in  pleasant 
places.  Upon  a  fine  summer  evening  the  old  red  brick  with 
its  windows  staring  complacently  upon  a  comfortable  world 
showed  a  fine  colour.  Its  very  chimneys  were  square  and 
solid,  its  eaves  and  water  pipes  regular  and  mathematical. 
Whatever  horrid  catastrophe  might  convulse  the  rest  of  Lon- 


THE  GEREMONY  15 

don,  No.  5  would  suffer  no  hurt ;  the  god  of  propriety — the 
strongest  of  all  the  gods — had  it  beneath  His  care. 

Now  behind  the  Fog  it  waited,  as  it  had  waited  so  often 
before,  with  certain  assurance,  for  its  release. 


Inside  the  house  at  about  half-past  four,  upon  this  after- 
noon November  8th,  in  the  year  1902,  young  Henry  Trench- 
ard  was  sitting  alone ;  he  was  straining  his  eyes  over  a  book 
that  interested  him  so  deeply  that  he  could  not  leave  it  in 
order  to  switch  on  the  electric  light ;  his  long  nose  stuck  into 
the  book's  very  heart  and  his  eyelashes  almost  brushed  the 
paper.  The  drawing-room  where  he  was  had  caught  some 
of  the  fog  and  kept  it,  and  Henry  Trenchard's  only  light  was 
the  fading  glow  of  a  red  cavernous  fire.  Henry  Trenchard, 
now  nineteen  years  of  age,  had  known,  in  all  those  nine- 
teen years,  no  change  in  that  old  drawing-room.  As  an 
ugly  and  tiresome  baby  he  had  wailed  before  the  sombre 
indifference  of  that  same  old  stiff  green  wall-paper — a  little 
brighter  then  perhaps, — had  sprawled  upon  the  same  old 
green  carpet,  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  play  with  the  same 
collection  of  little  scent  bottles  and  stones  and  rings  and 
miniatures  that  lay  now,  in  the  same  decent  symmetry,  in  the 
same  narrow  glass-topped  table  over  by  the  window.  It  was 
by  shape  and  design  a  heavy  room,  slipping  into  its  true 
spirit  with  the  London  dusk,  the  London  fog,  the  London 
lamp-lit  winter  afternoon,  seeming  awkward,  stiff,  almost  af- 
fronted before  the  sunshine  and  summer  weather.  One  or 
two  Trenchards — two  soldiers  and  a  Bishop — were  there  in 
heavy  old  gold  frames,  two  ponderous  glass-fronted  book- 
cases guarded  from  any  frivolous  touch  high  stiff-backed  vol- 
umes of  Gibbons  and  Richardson  and  Hooker. 

There  were  some  old  water-colours  of  faded  green  lawns, 
dim  rocks  and  seas  with  neglected  boats  upon  the  sand — 


16  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

all  these  painted  in  the  stiff  precision  of  the  'thirties  and  the 
'forties,  smoked  and  fogged  a  little  in  their  thin  black  frames. 

Upon  one  round-table  indeed  there  was  a  concession  to  the 
modern  spirit  in  the  latest  numbers  of  the  "Cornhill"  and 
"Blackwood"  magazines,  the  "Quarterly  Review"  and  the 
"Hibbert  Journal." 

The  chairs  in  the  room  were  for  the  most  part  stiff  with 
gilt  backs  and  wore  a  "Don't  you  dare  to  sit  down  upon  me" 
eye,  but  two  armchairs,  near  the  fire,  of  old  green  leather 
were  comfortable  enough  and  upon  one  of  these  Henry  was 
now  sitting.  Above  the  wide  stone  fireplace  was  a  large  old 
gold  mirror,  a  mirror  that  took  into  its  expanse  the  whole  of 
the  room,  so  that,  standing  before  it,  with  your  back  to  the 
door,  you  could  see  everything  that  happened  behind  you. 
The  Mirror  was  old  and  gave  to  the  view  that  it  embraced 
some  old  comfortable  touch  so  that  everything  within  it  was 
soft  and  still  and  at  rest.  Now,  in  the  gloom  and  shadow, 
the  reflection  was  green  and  dark  with  the  only  point  of 
colour  the  fading  fire.  Before  it  a  massive  gold  clock  with 
the  figures  of  the  Three  Graces  stiff  and  angular  at  its  sum- 
mit ticked  away  as  though  it  were  the  voice  of  a  very  old 
gentleman  telling  an  interminable  story.  It  served  indeed  for 
the  voice  of  the  mirror  itself.  .  .  . 

Henry  was  reading  a  novel  that  showed  upon  its  back 
Mudie's  bright  yellow  label.  He  was  reading,  as  the  clock 
struck  half-past  four,  these  words : — 

"I  sat  on  the  stump  of  a  tree  at  his  feet,  and  below  us 
stretched  the  land,  the  great  expanse  of  the  forests,  sombre 
under  the  sunshine,  rolling  like  a  sea,  with  glints  of  wind- 
ing rivers,  the  grey  spots  of  villages,  and  here  and  there  a 
clearing,  like  an  islet  of  light  amongst  the  dark  waves  of  con- 
tinuous tree-tops.  A  brooding  gloom  lay  over  this  vast  and 
monotonous  landscape ;  the  light  fell  on  it  as  if  into  an  abyss. 
The  land  devoured  the  sunshine ;  only  far  off,  along  the  coast, 
the  empty  ocean,  smooth  and  polished  within  the  faint  bays, 
seemed  to  rise  up  to  the  sky  in  a  wall  of  steel. 


THE  CEREMONY  17 

And  there  I  was  with  him,  high  on  the  sunshine  on  the  top 
of  that  historic  hill.  .  .  ." 

The  striking  of  the  clock  brought  him  away  from  the  book 
with  a  jerk,  so  deep  had  he  been  sunk  in  it  that  he  looked 
now  about  the  dusky  room  with  a  startled  uncertain  gaze.  The 
familiar  place  settled  once  more  about  him  and,  with  a  little 
sigh,  he  sank  back  into  the  chair.  His  thin  bony  legs  stuck 
out  in  front  of  him;  one  trouser-leg  was  hitched  up  and  his 
sock,  falling  down  over  his  boot,  left  bare  part  of  his  calf; 
his  boots  had  not  been  laced  tightly  and  the  tongues  had 
slipped  aside,  showing  his  sock.  He  was  a  long  thin  youth, 
his  hair  untidy,  his  black  tie  up  at  the  back  of  his  collar ;  one 
white  and  rather  ragged  cuff  had  slipped  down  over  his  wrist, 
the  other  was  invisible.  His  eyes  were  grey  and  weak,  he 
had  a  long  pointed  nose  with  two  freckles  on  the  very  end 
of  it,  but  his  mouth  was  kindly  although  too  large  and  in- 
determinate. His  cheeks  were  thin  and  showed  high  cheek- 
bones; his  chin  was  pronounced  enough  to  be  strong  but 
nevertheless  helped  him  very  little. 

He  was  untidy  and  ungainly  but  not  entirely  unattrac- 
tive ;  his  growth  was  at  the  stage  when  nature  has  not  made 
up  its  mind  as  to  the  next,  the  final  move.  That  may,  after 
all,  be  something  very  pleasant.  .  .  . 

His  eyes  now  were  dreamy  and  soft  because  he  was  think- 
ing of  the  book.  No  book,  perhaps,  in  all  his  life  before  had 
moved  him  so  deeply  and  he  was  very  often  moved — but,  aa 
a  rule,  by  cheap  and  sentimental  emotions. 

He  knew  that  he  was  cheap;  he  knew  that  he  was  senti- 
mental ;  he,  very  often,  hated  and  despised  himself. 

He  could  see  the  Forests  "rolling  like  a  sea".  It  was  as 
though  he,  himself,  had  been  perched  upon  that  high,  bright 
hill,  and  he  was  exalted,  he  felt,  with  that  same  exultation; 
the  space,  the  freedom,  the  liberty,  the  picture  of  a  world 
wherein  anything  might  happen,  where  heroes,  fugitives, 
scoundrels,  cowards,  conquerors  all  alike  might  win  their 
salvation.  "Room  for  everyone  ...  no  one  to  pull  one  up — 


18  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

No  one  to  make  one  ashamed  of  what  one  says  and  does. 
No  crowd  watching  one's  every  movement.  Adventures  for 
the  wishing  and  courage  to  meet  them." 

He  looked  about  the  room  and  hated  it, — the  old,  shabby, 
hemmed-in  thing!  He  hated  this  life  to  which  he  was  con- 
demned ;  he  hated  himself,  his  world,  his  uninspiring  future. 

"My  God,  I  must  do  something!  ...  I  will  do  some- 
thing! .  .  .  But  suppose  I  can't!"  His  head  fell  again — 
suppose  he  were  out  in  that  other  world,  there  in  the  heart 
of  those  dark  forests,  suppose  that  he  found  that  he  did  no 
better  there  than  here  1  ...  That  would  be,  indeed,  the  most 
terrible  thing  of  all ! 

He  gazed  up  into  the  Mirror,  saw  in  it  the  reflection  of 
the  room,  the  green  walls,  the  green  carpet,  the  old  faded 
green  place  like  moss  covering  dead  ground.  Soft,  damp,  dark, 
— and  beyond  outside  the  Mirror,  the  world  of  the  Forests 
— "the  great  expanse  of  Forests"  and  "beyond,  the  Ocean 
— smooth  and  polished  .  .  .  rising  up  to  the  sky  in  a  wall  of 
steel." 

His  people,  his  family,  his  many,  many  relations,  his 
world,  he  thought,  were  all  inside  the  Mirror — all  embedded 
in  that  green,  soft,  silent  enclosure.  He  saw,  stretching  from 
one  end  of  England  to  the  other,  in  all  Provincial  towns,  in 
neat  little  houses  with  neat  little  gardens,  in  Cathedral  Cities 
with  their  sequestered  Closes,  in  villages  with  the  deep  green 
lanes  leading  up  to  the  rectory  gardens,  in  old  Country 
houses  hemmed  in  by  wide  stretching  fields,  in  little  lost 
places  by  the  sea,  all  these  persons  happily,  peacefully  sunk 
up  to  their  very  necks  in  the  green  moss.  Within  the  Mirror 
this  .  .  .  Outside  the  Mirror  the  rolling  forests  guarded  by 
the  shining  wall  of  sea.  His  own  family  passed  before  him. 
His  grandfather,  his  great-aunt  Sarah,  his  mother  and  his 
father,  Aunt  Aggie  and  Aunt  Betty,  Uncle  Tim,  Millicent, 
Katherine.  .  .  .  He  paused  then.  The  book  slipped  away 
and  fell  on  to  the  floor. 

Catherine  .  .  .  dear  Katherine!     He  did  not  care  what 


THE  CEREMONY  19 

she  was !  And  then,  swept  by  a  fresh  wave  of  feeling  spring- 
ing up,  stretching  his  arms,  facing  the  room,  he  did  not  care 
what  any  of  them  were !  He  was  the  Idiot,  the  discontented, 
ungrateful  Idiot!  He  loved  them  all — he  wouldn't  change 
one  of  them,  he  wouldn't  be  in  any  other  family  in  all  the 
world  I 

The  door  opened ;  in  came  old  Rocket,  the  staff  and  prop 
of  the  family,  to  turn  up  the  lights,  to  poke  up  the  fire.  In 
a  minute  tea  would  come  in.  ... 

"Why,  Mr.  Henry,  no  fire  nor  lights !"  He  shuffled  to  the 
windows,  pulling  the  great  heavy  curtains  across  them,  his 
knees  cracking,  very  slowly  he  bent  down,  picked  up  the  book, 
and  laid  it  carefully  on  the  table  next  to  the  "Hibbert 
Journal." 

"I  hope  you've  not  been  reading,  Mr.  Henry,  in  this  bad 
light,"  he  said. 

in 

Later,  between  nine  and  half-past,  Henry  was  sitting  with 
his  father  and  his  uncle,  smoking  and  drinking  after  dinner. 
To-night  was  an  evening  of  Ceremony — the  Family  Cere- 
mony of  the  year — therefore,  although  the  meal  had  been 
an  extremely  festive  one  with  many  flowers,  a  perfect  moun- 
tain of  fruit  in  the  huge  silver  bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table, 
and  the  Most  Sacred  Of  All  Ports  (produced  on  this  occa- 
sion and  Christmas  Day)  nevertheless  only  the  Family  had 
been  present.  ISTo  distant  relations  even,  certainly  no  friends. 
.  .  .  This  was  Grandfather  Trenchard's  birthday. 

The  ladies  vanished,  there  remained  only  Henry,  his  father 
and  Uncle  Tim.  Henry  was  sitting  there,  very  self-con- 
scious over  his  glass  of  Port.  He  was  always  self-conscious 
when  Uncle  Tim  was  present. 

Uncle  Tim  was  a  Faunder  and  was  large-limbed  and 
absent-minded  like  Henry's  father.  Uncle  Tim  had  a  wild 
head  of  grey  hair,  a  badly-kept  grey  beard  and  clothed  his 
long,  loose  figure  in  long,  loose  garments.  He  was  here  to- 


20  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

day  and  gone  tomorrow,  preferred  the  country  to  the  town 
and  had  a  little  house  down  in  Glebeshire,  where  he  led  an 
untidy  bachelor  existence  whose  motive  impulses  were  birds 
and  flowers. 

Henry  was  very  fond  of  Uncle  Tim;  he  liked  his  untidi- 
ness, his  careless  geniality,  his  freedom  and  his  happiness. 

Henry's  father — George  Trenchard — was  "splendid" — 
that,  thought  Henry,  was  the  only  possible  word — and  the 
boy,  surveying  other  persons'  fathers,  wondered  why  Kath- 
erine,  Millicent,  and  himself  should  have  been  chosen  out 
of  all  the  world  to  be  so  favoured. 

George  Trenchard,  at  this  time  about  sixty  years  of  age, 
was  over  six  feet  in  height  and  broad  in  proportion.  He 
was  growing  too  stout ;  his  hair  was  grey  and  the  top  of  his 
head  bald ;  his  eyes  were  brown  and  absent-minded,  his  mouth 
large  with  a  lurking  humour  in  its  curves;  his  cheeks  were 
fat  and  round  and  there  was  the  beginning  of  a  double  chin. 
He  walked,  always,  in  a  rambling,  rolling  kind  of  way,  like 
a  sea-captain  on  shore,  still  balancing  himself  to  the  swing 
of  his  vessel,  his  hands  deep  sunk  in  his  trouser-pockets. 
Henry  had  been  privileged,  sometimes,  to  see  him,  when,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  evolution  of  an  essay  or  the  Chapter  of  some 
book  (he  is,  of  course,  one  of  our  foremost  authorities  on 
the  early  Nineteenth  Century  period  of  English  Literature, 
especially  Hazlitt  and  De  Quincey)  he  rolled  up  and  down 
his  study,  with  his  head  back,  his  hand  sunk  in  his  pockets, 
whistling  a  little  tune  .  .  .  very  wonderful  he  seemed  to 
Henry  then. 

He  was  the  most  completely  careless  of  optimists,  refused 
to  be  brought  down  to  any  stern  fact  whatever,  hated  any 
strong  emotion  or  stringent  relations  with  anyone,  treated  his 
wife  and  children  as  the  most  delightful  accidents  against 
whom  he  had,  most  happily  tumbled ;  his  kindness  of  heart 
was  equalled  only  by  the  lightning  speed  with  which  he  for- 
got the  benefits  that  he  had  conferred  and  the  persons  upon 
whom  he  had  conferred  them  .  .  .  like  a  happy  bird,  he 


THE  CEKEMONY  21 

went  carolling  through  life.  Alone,  of  all  living  beings,  his 
daughter  Katherine  had  hound  him  to  her  with  cords;  for 
the  rest,  he  loved  and  forgot  them  all. 

Now,  on  this  family  occasion  of  his  father's  hirthday — his 
father  was  eighty-seven  to-day — he  was  absolutely  happy. 
He  was  proud  of  his  family  when  any  definite  occasion,  such 
as  this,  compelled  him  to  think  of  it;  he  considered  that  it 
had  all  been  a  very  jolly,  pleasant  dinner,  that  there  would 
certainly  follow  a  very  jolly,  pleasant  evening.  He  liked, 
especially,  to  have  his  brother,  Timothy,  with  him — he  loved 
them  all,  bless  their  hearts — he  felt,  as  he  assured  them,  "Not 
a  day  more  than  twenty." 

"How  do  you  really  think  Father  is,  George?"  asked 
Timothy. 

"Sound  as  a  bell,"  said  Henry's  father,  "getting  deaf  of 
course — must  expect  that — but  it's  my  belief  that  the  harder 
his  hearing  the  brighter  his  eyes — never  knew  anyone  so 
sharp.  Nothing  escapes  him,  'pon  my  soul." 

"Well,"  said  George  Trenchard,  "I  think  it  a  most  sat- 
isfactory thing  that  here  we  should  all  be  again — healthy, 
happy,  sound  as  so  many  bells — lively  as  crickets — not  a  hap- 
pier family  in  England." 

"Don't  say  that,  George,"  said  Uncle  Tim,  "most  unlucky." 

"Nonsense,"  said  George  Trenchard,  brushing  Uncle  Tim 
aside  like  a  fly,  "Nonsense.  We're  a  happy  family,  a  healthy 
family  and  a  united  family." 

"I  drink  my  gratitude  to  the  God  of  Family  Life,  who- 
ever He  is.  .  .  ."  He  finished  his  glass  of  Port.  "Here, 
Timothy,  have  another  glass.  It's  a  Port  in  a  million,  so  it 
is." 

But  Uncle  Tim  shook  his  head.  "It's  all  very  well,  George, 
but  you'll  have  to  break  up  soon.  The  girls  will  be  mar- 
rying— Katherine  and  Millicent — " 

"Eot,"  said  George,  "Millie's  still  at  school." 

"She's  coming  home  very  soon — very  shortly  I  believe. 
And  besides  you  can't  keep  a  family  together  as  you  used  to. 


22  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

You  can't.  No  one  cares  about  the  home  at  all  now-a-days. 
These  youngsters  will  find  that  out  soon  enough.  You'll  be 
deserting  the  nest  immediately,  Henry,  my  friend,  won't 
you?" 

This  sudden  appeal,  of  course,  confused  Henry  terribly. 
He  choked  over  his  wine,  coloured  crimson,  stammered  out: 

"No,  Uncle  Tim — Of  course — Of  course — not." 

George  Trenchard  looked  at  his  son  with  approval. 

"That's  right.  Stick  to  your  old  father  while  you  can. 
The  matter  with  you,  Tim,  is  that  you  live  outside  the  world 
and  don't  know  what's  going  on." 

"The  matter  with  you,  George,  is,"  his  brother,  speaking 
slowly  and  carefully,  replied,  "That  you  haven't  the  ghost  of 
an  idea  of  what  the  modern  world's  like — not  the  ghost.  Up 
in  the  clouds  you  are,  and  so's  your  whole  family,  my  sister 
and  all — But  the  young  ones  won't  be  up  in  the  clouds  al- 
ways, not  a  bit  of  it.  They'll  come  down  one  day  and  then 
you'll  see  what  you  will  see." 

"And  what'll  that  be?"  said  George  Trenchard,  laughing 
a  little  scornfully. 

"Why  you  and  Harriet  doing  Darby  and  Joan  over  the 
dying  fire  and  no  one  else  within  a  hundred  miles  of  you 
— except  a  servant  who's  waiting  for  your  clothes  and  sleeve- 
links." 

"There,  Henry — Listen  to  that!"  said  his  father,  still 
laughing — "See  what  an  ungrateful  fellow  you're  going  to 
be  in  a  year  or  two !" 

Henry  blushed,  swallowed  in  his  throat,  smiled  idioti- 
cally. They  were  all,  he  thought,  laughing  at  him,  but  the 
effect  was  very  pleasant  and  genial.  .  .  . 

Moreover  he  was  interested.  He  was,  of  course,  one  of 
the  young  ones  and  it  was  his  future  that  was  under  dis- 
cussion. His  mind  hovered  over  the  book  that  he  had  been 
reading  that  afternoon.  Uncle  Tim's  words  had  very  much 
the  same  effect  upon  Henry's  mind  that  that  book's  words 
had  had,  although  from  a  different  angle  so  to  speak.  .  .  . 


THE  CEREMONY  23 

Henry's  eyes  lingered  about  a  little  silver  dish  that  contained 
sugared  cherries.  .  .  .  He  liked  immensely  sugared  cherries. 
Encouraged  by  the  genial  atmosphere  he  stretched  out  his 
hand,  took  two  cherries,  and  swallowed  them,  but,  in  his 
agitation,  so  swiftly  that  he  did  not  taste  them  at  all. 

Then  he  drank  two  glasses  of  Port — he  had  never  before 
drunk  so  much  wine.  He  was  conscious  now  that  he  must 
not,  under  any  circumstances,  drink  any  more.  He  was 
aware  that  he  must  control,  very  closely,  his  tongue;  he 
told  himself  that  the  room  was  not  in  reality  so  golden  and 
glowing  a  place  as  it  now  seemed  to  him,  that  it  was  only 
the  same  old  dining-room  with  which  he  had  all  his  life,  been 
familiar.  He  convinced  himself  by  a  steady  gaze  that  the 
great  silver  dish  with  the  red  and  purple  and  golden  fruit 
piled  upon  it  was  only  a  silver  dish,  was  not  a  deep  bowl 
whose  sides,  like  silver  walls  stretched  up  right  into  the  dim 
electric  clusters  of  electric  light  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 
He  might  convince  himself  of  these  facts,  he  might  with  a 
great  effort  steady  the  room  that  very,  very  slightly  swayed 
about  him  .  .  .  what  he  could  not  deny  was  that  Life  was 
gorgeous,  that  this  was  an  Evening  of  all  the  Evenings,  that 
he  adored  his  father,  his  uncle  and  all  the  family  to  such  a 
height  and  depth  of  devotion  that,  were  he  not  exceedingly 
careful,  he  would  burst  into  tears — burst  into  tears  he  must 
not  because  then  would  the  stud  in  his  shirt  most  assuredly 
abandon  its  restraints  and  shame  him,  for  ever,  before  Uncle 
Tim. 

At  this  moment  his  father  gave  the  command  to  move. 
Henry  rose,  very  carefully,  from  his  seat,  steadied  himself 
at  the  table  for  an  instant,  then,  very,  very  gravely,  with  his 
eye  upon  his  shirt-stud,  followed  his  uncle  from  the  room. 

IV 

He  retained,  throughout  the  rest  of  that  eventful  evening, 
the  slightly  exaggerated  vision  of  the  world.  It  was  not  that, 


24  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

as  he  followed  his  father  and  uncle  into  the  drawing-room, 
he  did  not  know  what  he  would  see.  He  would  find  them 
sitting  there — Grandfather  in  his  chair,  his  feet  on  a  stool, 
his  bony  hands  pressed  upon  his  thin  knees  with  that  fierce, 
protesting  pressure  that  represented  so  much  in  hia  grand- 
father. There  would  be,  also,  his  Great-Aunt  Sarah  with  her 
high  pyramid  of  white  hair,  her  long  black  ear-trumpet  and 
her  hard  sharp  little  eyes  like  faded  blue  pebbles,  there  would 
be  his  mother,  square  and  broad  and  placid  with  her  hands 
folded  on  her  lap,  there  would  be  Aunt  Aggie,  with  her  pout- 
ing, fat  little  face,  her  cheeks  quivering  a  little  as  she  moved 
her  head,  her  eyes  searching  about  the  room,  nervously,  un- 
easily, and  there  would  be  Aunt  Betty,  neat  and  tiny,  with  her 
little  trembling  smile  and  her  quiet  air  of  having  something 
very  important  to  do  of  which  no  one  else  in  the  family  had 
the  ghost  of  an  idea!  Oh!  he  knew  them  all  so  well  that 
they  appeared  to  him,  now,  to  be  part  of  himself  and  to 
exist  only  as  his  ideas  of  the  world  and  life  and  his  own  des- 
tiny. They  could  not  now  do  anything  that  would  ever  sur- 
prise or  disconcert  him,  he  knew  their  ideas,  their  schemes, 
their  partialities,  their  disgusts,  and  he  would  not — so  he 
thought  now  with  the  fire  of  life  burning  so  brightly  with- 
in him — have  them  changed,  no,  not  in  any  tiniest  atom  of 
an  alteration. 

He  knew  that  they  would  sit  there,  all  of  them,  and  talk 
quietly  about  nothing,  and  then  when  the  gold  clock  was  ap- 
proaching half-past  nine  they  would  slip  away, — save  only 
grandfather  and  Aunt  Sarah — and  would  slip  up  to  their 
rooms  and  then  they  would  slip  down  again  with  their  parcels 
in  their  hands  and  at  half-past  nine  the  Ceremony  would  take 
place.  So  it  had  been  for  years  and  years  and  so  it  would 
continue  to  be  until  Grandfather's  death,  and,  after  that, 
Henry's  father  would  take  his  place,  and  then,  one  day,  per- 
haps, it  would  be  the  turn  of  Henry  himself. 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  the  room — Kath- 
erine  was  not  there.  She  was  always  until  the  very  last 


THE  CEREMONY  25 

moment,  doing  something  to  Grandfather's  present,  tying  it 
up  in  some  especial  ribbon,  writing  something  on  the  paper 
wrapping,  making  it,  in  some  way,  more  perfect.  He  knew 
that,  as  he  came  in,  his  mother  would  look  up  and  smile  and 
say  "Well,  Henry,"  and  then  would  resume  her  placidity, 
that  Uncle  Tim  would  sit  down  beside  Aunt  Betty  and  begin, 
very  gently,  to  chaff  her,  which  would  please  her  immensely, 
and  that  Aunt  Sarah  would  cry  "What  did  you  say,  Tim- 
othy ?"  and  that  then  he  would  shout  down  her  ear-trumpet, 
with  a  good-humoured  smile  peeping  down  from  his  beard 
as  though  he  were  thinking  "One  must  humour  the  old  lady 
you  know." 

All  these  things  occurred.  Henry  himself  sat  in  a  low 
chair  by  the  fire  and  looked  at  his  father,  who  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  other  end  of  the  room,  his  hands  deep  in 
his  pockets,  his  head  back.  Then  he  looked  at  his  two  aunts 
and  wondered,  as  he  had  wondered  so  many  times  before,  that 
they  were  not  the  sisters  of  his  mother  instead  of  his  father. 
They  were  so  small  and  fragile  to  be  the  sisters  of  such  large- 
limbed,  rough-and-tumble  men  as  his  father  and  Uncle  Tim- 
othy. They  would  have,  so  naturally,  taken  their  position 
in  the  world  as  the  sisters  of  his  mother. 

Aunt  Aggie,  who  thought  that  no  one  was  paying  her  very 
much  attention,  said : 

"I  can't  think  why  Katherine  wouldn't  let  me  get  that  silk 
for  her  at  Liberty's  this  afternoon.  I  could  have  gone  up 
Regent  Street  so  easily — it 'wouldn't  have  been  very  much 
trouble — not  very  much,  but  Katherine  always  must  do  every- 
thing for  herself." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said:  "It  was  very  kind  of  you,  Aggie 
dear,  to  think  of  it — I'm  sure  it  was  very  kind,"  and  Aunt 
Betty  said:  "Katherine  would  appreciate  your  thinking  of 
her." 

"I  wonder,  with  the  fog,  that  any  of  you  went  out  at  all," 
said  Uncle  Tim,  "I'm  sure  I  was  as  nearly  killed  as  nothing 
just  coming  back  from  the  Strand." 


26  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

'Aunt  Aggie  moved  her  hands  on  her  lap,  looked  at  them, 
suspiciously,  to  see  whether  they  meant  what  they  said,  and 
then  sighed — and,  to  Henry,  this  all  seemed  to-night  won- 
derful, magical,  possessed  of  some  thrilling,  passionate  qual- 
ity; his  heart  was  beating  with  furious,  leaping  bounds,  his 
eyes  were  misty  with  sentimental  happiness.  He  thought 
that  this  was  life  that  he  was  realising  now  for  the  first  time. 
...  It  was  not — it  was  two  glasses  of  Port. 

He  looked  at  his  grandfather  and  thought  of  the  wonderful 
old  man  that  he  was.  His  grandfather  was  very  small  and 
very  thin  and  so  delicate  was  the  colour  of  his  white  hair,  his 
face,  and  his  hands  that  the  light  seemed  to  shine  through 
him,  as  though  he  had  been  made  of  glass.  He  was  a  silent 
old  man  and  everything  about  him  was  of  a  fine  precious  qual- 
ity— his  black  shoes  with  the  silver  buckles,  the  gold  signet 
ring  on  his  finger,  the  black  cord  with  the  gold  eye-glasses  that 
lay  across  his  shirt-front ;  when  he  spoke  it  was  with  a  thin, 
silvery  voice  like  a  bell. 

He  did  not  seem,  as  he  sat  there,  to  be  thinking  about  any 
of  them  or  to  be  caring  for  anything  that  they  might  do. 

His  thoughts,  perhaps,  were  shining  and  silver  and  pre- 
cious like  the  rest  of  him,  but  no  one  knew  because  he  said  so 
little.  Aunt  Betty,  with  a  glance  at  the  clock,  rose  and 
slipped  from  the  room.  The  moment  had  arrived.  .  .  . 


Very  soon,  and,  indeed,  just  as  the  clock,  as  though  it  were 
summoning  them  all  back,  struck  the  half-hour,  there  they  all 
were  again.  They  stood,  in  a  group  by  the  door  and  each 
one  had,  in  his  or  her  hand,  his  or  her  present.  Grandfather, 
as  silent  as  an  ivory  figure,  sat  in  his  chair,  with  Aunt  Sarah 
in  her  chair  beside  him,  and  in  front  of  him  was  a  table, 
cleared  of  anything  that  was  upon  it,  its  mahogany  shining 
in  the  fire-light.  All  the  Trenchard  soldiers  and  the  Trench- 


THE  CEREMONY  27 

ard  Bishop  looked  down,  with  solemn  approval,  upon  the 
scene. 

"Come  on,  Henry,  my  boy,  time  to  begin,"  said  his  father. 

Henry,  because  he  was  the  youngest,  stepped  forward,  his 
present  in  his  hand.  His  parcel  was  very  ill-tied  and  the 
paper  was  creased  and  badly  folded.  He  was  greatly  ashamed 
as  he  laid  it  upon  the  table.  Blushing,  he  made  his  little 
speech,  his  lips  together,  speaking  like  an  awkward  schoolboy. 
"We're  all  very  glad,  Grandfather,  that  we're  all — most  of 
us — here  to — to  congratulate  you  on  your  birthday.  We  hope 
that  you're  enjoying  your  birthday  and  that — that  there'll 
be  lots  more  for  you  to  enjoy." 

"Bravo,  Henry,"  came  from  the  back  of  the  room.  Henry 
stepped  back  still  blushing.  Then  Grandfather  Trenchard, 
with  trembling  hands,  slowly  undid  the  parcel  and  revealed 
a  purple  leather  blotting-book  with  silver  edges. 

"Thank  you,  my  boy — very  good  of  you.    Thank  you." 

Then  came  Katherine.  Katherine  was  neither  very  tall 
nor  very  short,  neither  fat  nor  thin.  She  had  some  of  the 
grave  placidity  of  her  mother  and,  in  her  eyes  and  mouth, 
some  of  the  humour  of  her  father.  She  moved  quietly  and 
easily,  very  self-possessed;  she  bore  herself  as  though  she 
had  many  more  important  things  to  think  about  than  any- 
thing that  concerned  herself.  Her  hair  and  her  eyes  were 
dark  brown,  and  now  as  she  went  with  her  present,  her  smile 
was  as  quiet  and  unself-conscious  as  everything  else  about 
her. 

"Dear  Grandfather,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you  many,  many 
happy  returns — "  and  then  she  stepped  back.  Her  present 
was  an  old  gold  snuff-box. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "Very  charming.  Thank 
you,  my  dear." 

Then  came  Aunt  Aggie,  her  eyes  nervous  and  a  little  re- 
sentful as  though  she  had  been  treated  rather  hardly  but  was 
making  the  best  of  difficult  circumstances.  "I'm  afraid  you 
won't  like  this,  Father,"  she  said.  "I  felt  that  you  wouldn't 


28  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

when  I  got  it.  But  I  did  my  best.  It's  a  silly  thing  to  give 
you,  I'm  afraid." 

She  watched  as  the  old  man,  very  slowly,  undid  the  parcel. 
She  had  given  him  a  china  ink-stand.  It  had  been  as  though 
she  had  said :  "Anything  more  foolish  than  to  give  an  old 
man  who  ought  to  be  thinking  about  the  grave  a  china  ink- 
stand I  can't  imagine." 

Perhaps  her  father  had  felt  something  of  this  in  her  voice 
— he  answered  her  a  little  sharply — 

"Thank  'ye — my  dear  Aggie — Thank  'ye." 

Very  different  Aunt  Betty.  She  came  forward  like  a  cheer- 
ful and  happy  sparrow,  her  head  just  on  one  side  as  though 
she  wished  to  perceive  the  complete  effect  of  everything  that 
was  going  on. 

"My  present  is  handkerchiefs,  Father.  I  worked  the  ini- 
tials myself.  I  hope  you  will  like  them,"  and  then  she  bent 
forward  and  took  his  hand  in  hers  and  held  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. As  he  looked  across  at  her,  a  little  wave  of  colour 
crept  up  behind  the  white  mask  of  his  cheek.  "Dear  Betty 
— my  dear.  Thank  'ye — Thank  'ye." 

Then  followed  Mrs.  Trenchard,  moving  like  some  frag- 
ment of  the  old  house  that  contained  her,  a  fragment  anxious 
to  testify  its  allegiance  to  the  head  of  the  family — but  anx- 
ious— as  one  must  always  remember  with  Mrs.  Trenchard — 
with  no  very  agitated  anxiety.  Her  -slow  smile,  her  solid 
square  figure  that  should  have  been  fat  but  was  only  broad, 
her  calm  soft  eyes — cow's  eyes — from  these  characteristics 
many  years  of  child-bearing  and  the  company  of  a  dreamy 
husband  had  not  torn  her. 

Would  something  ever  tear  her  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  there  was  some- 
thing. 

In  her  slow  soft  voice  she  said:  "Father  dear,  many 
happy  returns  of  the  day — many  happy  returns.  This  is 
a  silk  muffler.  I  hope  you'll  like  it,  Father  dear.  It's  a 
muffler." 

They  surveyed  one  another  calmly  across  the  shining  table. 


THE  CEREMOKY  29 

Mrs.  Trenchard  was  a  Faunder,  but  the  Faunders  were  kin 
by  breeding  and  tradition  to  the  Trenchards — the  same  green 
pastures,  the  same  rich,  packed  counties,  the  same  mild 
skies  and  flowering  Springs  had  seen  the  development  of  their 
convictions  about  the  world  and  their  place  in  it. 

The  Faunders.  .  .  .  The  Trenchards  ...  it  is  as  though 
you  said  Tweedledum  and  Tweedledee.  Mrs.  Trenchard 
looked  at  her  father-in-law  and  smiled,  then  moved  away. 

Then  came  the  men.  Uncle  Tim  had  a  case  of  silver 
brushes  to  present  and  he  mumbled  something  in  his  beard 
about  them.  George  Trenchard  had  some  old  glass,  he  flung 
back  his  head  and  laughed,  gripped  his  father  by  the  hand, 
shouted  something  down  Aunt  Sarah's  trumpet.  Aunt  Sarah 
herself  had  given,  at  an  earlier  hour,  her  offering  because 
she  was  so  deaf  and  her  brother's  voice  so  feeble  that  on 
earlier  occasions,  her  presentation,  protracted  and  embar- 
rassing, had  affected  the  whole  evening.  She  sat  there  now, 
like  an  ancient  iBoadicea,  looking  down  grimly  upon  the  pres- 
ents, as  though  they  were  so  many  spoils  won  by  a  raid. 

It  was  time  for  the  old  man  to  make  a  Speech :  It  was — 
"Thank  'ye,  Thank  'ye — very  good  of  you  all — very.  It's 
pleasant,  all  of  us  together — very  pleasant.  I  never  felt  bet- 
ter in  my  life  and  I  hope  you're  all  the  same.  .  .  .  Thank 
'ye,  my  dears.  Thank  'ye." 

The  Ceremony  was  thus  concluded;  instantly  they  were 
all  standing  about,  laughing,  talking,  soon  they  would  be  all 
in  the  hall  and  then  they  would  separate,  George  and  Timothy 
and  Bob  to  talk,  perhaps,  until  early  hours  in  the  morning. 
.  .  .  Here  is  old  Rocket  to  wheel  grandfather's  chair  along 
to  his  bedroom. 

"Well,  Father,  here's  Rocket  come  for  you." 

"All  right,  my  dear,  I'm  ready.  .  .  ." 

But  Rocket  had  not  come  for  his  master.  Rocket,  perplex- 
ity, dismay,  upon  his  countenance,  was  plainly  at  a  loss,  and 
for  Rocket  to  be  at  a  loss! 

"Hullo,  Rocket,  what  is  it?" 


30  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"There's  a  gentleman,  sir — apologises  profoundly  for  the 
lateness  of  the  hour — wouldn't  disturb  you  but  the  fog — his 
card.  .  .  ." 

VI 

Until  he  passes  away  to  join  the  glorious  company  of 
Trenchards  who  await  him,  will  young  Henry  Trenchard  re- 
member everything  that  then  occurred — exactly  he  will  re- 
member it  and  to  its  tiniest  detail.  It  was  past  ten  o'clock 
and  never  in  the  memory  of  anyone  present  had  the  Cere- 
mony before  been  invaded.  .  .  .  Astonishing  impertinence 
on  the  part  of  someone!  Astonishing  bravery  also  did  he 
only  realise  it ! 

"It's  the  fog,  you  know,"  said  Henry's  mother. 

"What's  the  matter!"  screamed  Aunt  Sarah. 

"Somebody  lost  in  the  fog." 

"Somebody  what?" 

"Lost  in  the  Fog." 

"In  the  what?" 

"!N  THE  FOG  !" 

"Oh!  .  .  .  How  did  you  say?" 

"Foo!" 

George  Trenchard  then  returned,  bringing  with  him  a 
man.  The  man  stood  in  the  doorway,  confused  (as,  indeed, 
'it  was  only  right  for  him  to  be),  blushing,  holding  his  bowler 
hat  nervously  in  his  hand,  smiling  that  smile  with  which  one 
seeks  to  propitiate  strangers. 

"I  say,  of  all  things,"  cried  George  Trenchard.  "What 
do  you  think,  all  of  you  ?  Of  all  the  coincidences !  This  is 
Mr.  Mark.  You  know,  mother  dear  (this  to  Mrs.  Trenchard, 
who  was  waiting  calmly  for  orders),  son  of  Rodney  Mark 
I've  so  often  told  you  of.  ...  Here's  his  son,  arrived  in 
London  yesterday  after  years'  abroad,  out  to-night,  lost  his 
way  in  the  fog,  stopped  at  first  here  to  enquire,  found  it  of 
all  remarkable  things  ours  where  he  was  coming  to  call  to- 
morrow !  .  .  .  Did  you  ever !" 


THE  CEREMONY  31 

"I  really  must  apologise — "  began  Mr.  Mark,  smiling  at 
everyone. 

"Oh  no !  you  mustn't,"  broke  in  George  Trenchard — "Must 
he,  mother  ?  He's  got  to  stop  the  night.  Of  course  he  has. 
We've  got  as  much  room  as  you  like.  Here,  let  me  intro- 
duce you." 

Mr.  Mark  was  led  round.  He  was,  most  certainly,  (as 
Aunt  Betty  remarked  afterwards  upstairs)  very  quiet  and 
pleasant  and  easy  about  it  all.  He  apologised  again  to  Mrs. 
Trenchard,  hadn't  meant  to  stop  more  than  a  moment,  so 
struck  by  the  coincidence,  his  father  had  always  said  first 
thing  he  must  do  in  London.  .  .  . 

Rocket  was  summoned — "Mr.  Mark  will  stop  here  to- 
night." "Certainly — of  course — anything  in  the  world — ' 

Grandfather  was  wheeled  away,  the  ladies  in  the  hall  hoped 
that  they  would  see  Mr.  Mark  in  the  morning  and  Mr.  Mark 
hoped  that  he  would  see  them.  Good-night — good-night.  .  .  . 

"Come  along  now,"  cried  George  Trenchard,  taking  his 
guest's  arm.  "Come  along  and  have  a  smoke  and  a  drink 
and  tell  us  what  you've  been  doing  all  these  years !  .  .  .  Why 
the  last  time  I  saw  you !  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Trenchard,  unmoved  by  this  ripple  upon  the  Tren- 
chard waters,  stopped  for  a  moment  before  leaving  the  draw- 
ing-room and  called  Henry — 

"Henry  dear.  Is  this  your  book?"  She  held  up  the 
volume  with  the  yellow  Mudie's  label. 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"I  hope  it's  a  nice  book  for  you,  dear." 

"A  very  nice  book,  Mother." 

"Well  I'm  sure  you're  old  enough  to  know  for  yourself 
now." 

"Good-night,  Mother." 

"Good-night,  dear." 

Henry,  with  the  book  under  his  arm,  went  up  to  bed. 


THE  WINTER  AFTERNOON 

EXTRACTS  from  a  letter  written  by  Philip  Mark  to  Mr. 
Paul  Alexis  in  Moscow : — 

".  .  .  because,  beyond  question,  it  was  the  oddest  chance 
that  I  should  come — straight  out  of  the  fog,  into  the  very 
house  that  I  wanted.  That,  mind  you,  was  a  week  .ago,  and 
I'm  still  here.  You've  never  seen  a  London  fog.  I  defy  you 
to  imagine  either  the  choking,  stifling  nastiness  of  it  or  the 
comfortable  happy  indifference  of  English  people  under  it. 
I  couldn't  have  struck,  if  I'd  tried  for  a  year,  anything  more 
eloquent  of  the  whole  position — my  position,  I  mean,  and 
theirs  and  the  probable  result  of  our  being  up  against  ono 
another.  .  .  . 

This  will  be  a  long  letter  because,  here  I  am  quite  unac- 
countably excited,  unaccountably,  I  say,  because  it's  all  as 
quiet  as  the  grave — after  midnight,  an  old  clock  ticking  out 
there  on  the  stairs.  Landseer's  'Dignity  and  Impudence'  on 
the  wall  ever  my  bed  and  that  old  faded  wall-paper  that  you 
only  see  in  the  bedrooms  of  the  upper  middles  in  England, 
who  have  lived  for  centuries  and  centuries  in  the  same  old 
house.  Much  too  excited  to  sleep,  simply  I  suppose  because 
all  kinds  of  things  are  beginning  to  reassert  themselves  on 
me — things  that  haven't  stirred  since  I  was  eighteen,  things 
that  Anna  and  Moscow  had  so  effectually  laid  to  rest.  All 
those  years  as  a  boy  I  had  just  this  wall-paper,  just  this 
ticking-clock,  just  these  faded  volumes  of  'Ivanhoe,'  'Kenil- 
worth',  'The  Scarlet  Letter'  and  Lytton's  'Night  and  Morn- 
ing' that  I  see  huddled  together  in  the  window.  Ah,  Paul, 

32 


THE  WINTER  AFTERNOON  33 

you've  never  known  what  all  that  means — the  comfort,  the 
safety,  the  muffled  cosiness,  the  gradual  decline  of  old  famil- 
iar things  from  shabbiness  to  shabbiness,  the  candles,  and 
pony-traps  and  apple-lofts  and  going  to  country  dances  in  old, 
jolting  cabs  with  the  buttons  hopping  off  your  new  white 
gloves  as  you  go  ...  it's  all  back  on  me  to-night,  it's  been 
crowding  in  upon  me  all  the  week — The  Trenchards  are 
bathed,  soaked,  saturated  with  it  all — they  ABE  IT  !  ...  Now, 
I'll  tell  you  about  them,  as  I've  seen  them  so  far. 

Trenchard,  himself,  is  fat,  jolly,  self-centred,  writes  about 
the  Lake  Poets  and  lives  all  the  morning  with  Lamb,  Hazlitt 
and  De  Quincey,  all  the  afternoon  with  the  world  as  seen  by 
himself,  and  all  the  evening  with  himself  as  seen  by  the  world. 
He's  selfish  and  happy,  absent-minded  and  as  far  from  all 
reality  as  any  man  could  possibly  be.  He  likes  me,  I  think,  be- 
cause I  understand  his  sense  of  humour,  the  surest  key  to 
the  heart  of  a  selfish  man.  About  Mrs.  Trenchard  I'm  not 
nearly  so  sure.  I've  been  too  long  out  of  England  to  under- 
stand her  all  in  a  minute.  You'd  say  right  off  that  she's 
stupider  than  any  one  you'd  ever  met,  and  then  afterwards 
you'd  be  less  and  less  certain.  .  .  .  Tremendously  full  of 
family  (she  was  a  Faunder),  muddled,  with  no  power  over 
words  at  all  so  that  she  can  never  say  what  she  means,  out- 
wardly of  an  extremely  amiable  simplicity,  inwardly,  I  am 
sure,  as  obstinate  as  a  limpet  .  .  .  not  a  shadow  of  humour. 
Heaven  only  knows  what  she's  thinking  about  really.  She 
never  lets  you  see.  I  don't  think  she  likes  me. 

There  are  only  two  children  at  home,  Henry  and  Kather- 
ine.  Henry's  at  'the  awkward  age'.  Gauche,  shy,  sentimen- 
tal, rude,  frightfully  excitable  from  the  public  school  con- 
viction that  he  must  never  show  excitement  about  anything, 
full  of  theories,  enthusiasms,  judgments  which  he  casts  aside, 
one  after  the  other,  as  fast  as  he  can  get  rid  of  them — at  the 
very  crisis  of  his  development — might  be  splendid  or  no 
good  at  all,  according  as  things  happen  to  him.  He's  inter- 
ested in  me  but  isn't  sure  of  me. 


34  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Then  there's  Katherine.  Katherine  is  the  clue  to  the 
house — know  Katherine  and  you  know  the  family.  But  then 
Katherine  is  not  easy  to  know.  She  is  more  friendly  than 
any  of  them — and  she  is  farther  away.  Very  quiet  with  all 
the  calm  security  of  someone  who  knows  that  there  are  many 
important  things  to  be  done  and  that  you  will  never  be  al- 
lowed, however  insistent  you  may  be,  to  interfere  with  those 
things.  The  family  depends  entirely  upon  her  and  she  lives 
for  the  family.  Nor  is  she  so  limited  as  that  might  seem  to 
make  her.  She  keeps,  I  am  sure,  a  great  many  things  down 
lest  they  should  interfere,  but  they  are  all  there — those  things. 
Meanwhile  she  is  cheerful,  friendly,  busy,  very,  very  quiet — 
and  distant — miles.  Does  she  like  me  ?  I  don't  know.  She 
listens  to  all  that  I  have  to  say.  She  has  imagination  and 
humour.  And  sometimes  when  I  think  that  I  have  im- 
pressed her  by  what  I  have  said  I  look  up  and  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  smiling  eyes,  as  though  she  thought  me,  in  spite  of 
all  my  wisdom,  the  most  awful  fool.  The  family  do  more 
than  depend  upon  her — they  adore  her.  There  is  no  kind  of 
doubt — they  adore  her.  She  alone  in  all  the  world  awakes 
her  father's  selfish  heart,  stirs  her  mother's  sluggish  imagina- 
tion, reassures  her  brother's  terrified  soul.  They  love  her  for 
the  things  that  she  does  for  them.  They  are  all — save  per- 
haps Henry — selfish  in  their  affection.  But  then  so  are  the 
rest  of  us,  are  we  not  ?  You,  Paul,  and  I,  at  any  rate.  .  .  . 

And,  all  this  time,  I  have  said  nothing  to  you  about  the 
guardians  of  the  House's  honour.  Already,  they  view  me 
with  intense  suspicion.  There  are  two  of  them,  both  very  old. 
An  aged,  aged  man,  bitter  and  sharp  and  shining  like  a  glass 
figure,  and  his  sister,  as  aged  as  he.  They  are,  both  of  them, 
deaf  and  the  only  things  truly  alive  about  them  are  their  eyes. 
But  with  these  they  watch  everything,  and  above  all,  they 
watch  ma  They  distrust  me,  profoundly,  their  eyes  never 
leave  me.  They  allow  me  to  make  no  advances  to  them. 
They  cannot  imagine  why  I  have  been  admitted — they  will, 
I  am  sure,  take  steps  to  turn  me  out  very  soon.  It  is  aa 


THE  WINTER  AETERNOON  35 

though  I  were  a  spy  in  a  hostile  country.  And  yet  they  all 
press  me  to  stay — all  of  them.  They  seem  to  like  to  have 
me.  What  I  have  to  tell  them  interests  them  and  they  are 
pleased,  too,  to  be  hospitable  in  a  large  and  comfortable  man- 
ner. Trenchard  was  deeply  attached  to  my  father  and  speaks 
of  him  to  me  with  an  emotion  surprising  in  so  selfish  a  man. 
They  like  me  to  stay  and  yet,  Paul,  with  it  all  I  tell  you  that 
I  am  strangely  frightened.  Of  what?  Of  whom?  ...  I 
have  no  idea.  Isn't  it  simply  that  the  change  from  Russia 
and,  perhaps,  also  Anna  is  so  abrupt  that  it  is  startling? 
Anna  and  Miss  Trenchard — there's  a  contrast  for  you! 
And  I'm  at  the  mercy — you  know,  of  anyone — you  have  al- 
ways said  it  and  it  is  so — most  unhappily.  Tell  Anna  from 
me  that  I  am  writing. 

Because  I  couldn't,  of  course,  explain  to  her  as  I  do  to  you 
the  way  that  these  old,  dead,  long-forgotten  things  are  spring- 
ing up  again  in  me.  She  would  never  understand.  But  we 
were  both  agreed — she  as  strongly  as  I — that  this  was  the 
right  thing,  the  only  thing.  .  .  .  You  know  that  I  would  not 
hurt  a  fly  if  I  could  help  it.  No,  tell  her  that  I  won't  write. 
I'll  keep  to  my  word.  Not  a  line  from  either  of  us  until  Time 
has  made  it  safe,  easy.  And  Stepan  will  be  good  to  her. 
He's  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  although  so  often  I  hated 
him.  For  his  sake,  as  well  as  for  all  the  other  reasons,  I  will 
not  write.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  it  is  really  true  enough  that  I'm 
frightened  for,  perhaps,  the  first  time  in  my  life.  .  .  ." 

Suspicion  was  the  key-note  of  young  Henry  Trenchard  at 
this  time.  He  was  so  unsure  of  himself  that  he  must  needs  be 
unsure  of  everyone  else.  He  was,  of  course,  suspicious  of 
Philip  Mark.  He  was  suspicious  and  he  also  admired  him. 
On  the  day  after  Mark  had  sat  up  writing  his  letter  Tialf  the 
night  because  he  was  excited',  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day 
they  were  sitting  in  the  green  dim  drawing-room  waiting  for 
tea.  Mark  was  opposite  Henry,  and  Henry,  back  in  the 
shadow,  as  he  liked  to  sit,  huddled  up  but  with  his  long  legs 


36  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

shooting  out  in  front  of  him  as  though  they  belonged  to  an- 
other body,  watched  him  attentively,  critically,  inquisitively. 
Mark  sat  with  a  little  pool  of  electric  light  about  him  and 
talked  politely  to  Mrs.  Trenchard,  who,  knitting  a  long  red 
woollen  affair  that  trailed  like  a  serpent  on  to  the  green  car- 
pet, said  now  and  then  such  things  as : 

"It  must  be  very  different  from  England"  or  "I  must  say 
I  should  find  that  very  unpleasant,"  breaking  in  also  to  say : 
"Forgive  me  a  moment.  Henry,  that  bell  did  ring,  didn't 
it  ?"  or  "Just  a  little  more  on  the  fire,  Henry,  please.  That 
big  lump,  please."  Then,  turning  patiently  to  Mark  and 
saying :  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mark — you  said  ?" 

Henry,  having  at  this  time  a  passion  for  neatness  and  or- 
derly arrangements,  admired  Mark's  appearance.  Mark  was 
short,  thick-set  and  very  dark.  A  closely-clipped  black  mous- 
tache and  black  hair  cut  short  made  him  look  like  an  officer, 
Henry  thought.  His  thick  muscular  legs  proved  him  a  rider, 
his  mouth  and  ears  were  small,  and  over  him  from  head  to 
foot  was  the  air  of  one  who  might  have  to  be  'off'  on  a  danger- 
ous expedition  at  any  moment  and  would  moreover  know  ex- 
actly what  to  do,  having  been  on  many  other  dangerous  expe- 
ditions before.  Only  his  eyes  disproved  the  man  of  action. 
They  were  dreamy,  introspective,  wavering  eyes — eyes  that 
were  much  younger  than  the  rest  of  him  and  eyes  too  that 
might  be  emotional,  sentimental,  impetuous,  foolish  and  care- 
less. 

Henry,  being  very  young,  did  not  notice  his  eyes.  Mark 
was  thirty  and  looked  it.  His  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  boy 
of  twenty.  .  .  .  From  Henry  his  dark  neat  clothes,  his  com- 
pact and  resourceful  air  compelled  envy  and  admiration — 
yes,  and  alarm.  For  Henry  was,  now,  entirely  and  utterly 
concerned  with  himself,  and  every  fresh  incident,  every  new 
arrival  was  instantly  set  up  before  him  so  that  he  might  see 
how  he  himself  looked  in  the  light  of  it.  Never  before, 
within  Henry's  memory,  had  anyone  not  a  relation,  not  even 
the  friend  of  a  relation,  been  admitted  so  intimately  into  the 


THE  WINTER  AFTERNOON  37 

heart  of  the  house,  and  it  seemed  to  Henry  that  now  already 
a  new  standard  was  being  set  up  and  that,  perhaps,  the  fam- 
ily by  the  light  of  this  dashing  figure,  who  knew  Russia  like 
an  open  book  and  could  be  relied  upon  at  the  most  dangerous 
crisis,  might  regard  himself,  Henry,  as  something  more 
crudely  shabby  and  incompetent  than  ever.  Moreover  he  waa 
not  sure  that  Mark  himself  did  not  laugh  at  him.  .  .  . 

Beyond  all  this  there  was  the  sense  that  Mark  had,  in  a 
way,  invaded  the  place.  It  was  true  that  the  family  had, 
after  that  first  eventful  evening,  pressed  him  to  stay,  but  it 
had  pressed  him  as  though  it  had,  upon  itself,  felt  pressure — • 
as  though  its  breath  had  been  caught  by  the  impact  of  some 
new  force  and,  before  it  could  recover  from  its  surprise,  be- 
hold the  force  was  there,  inside  the  room  with  the  doors  closed 
behind  it. 

"It's  hardly  decent  for  him  to  stay  on  like  this,"  thought 
Henry,  "and  yet  after  all  we  asked  him.  And  ...  he  is 
jolly  1" 

Jolly  was  something  that  only  Henry's  father  and  Uncle 
Tim  of  the  Trenchard  family  could  be  said  to  be,  and  its 
quality  was  therefore  both  enlivening  and  alarming. 

"Mother  won't  like  it,  if  he's  too  jolly,"  thought  Henry, 
"I'm  not  sure  if  she  likes  it  now." 

Henry  had,  upon  this  afternoon,  an  extra  cause  for  anx- 
iety; a  friend  of  his,  a  friend  of  whom  he  was  especially 
proud,  was  coming  to  tea.  This  friend's  name  was  Seymour 
and  he  was  a  cheerful  young  man  who  had  written  several 
novels  and  was  considered  'promising5 — 

The  Trenchards  had  a  very  slight  knowledge  of  that  world 
known  as  'the  Arts'  and  they  had  (with  the  exception  of 
Henry)  a  very  healthy  distrust  of  artists  as  a  race. 

But  young  Seymour  was  another  affair.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man, with  many  relations  who  knew  Trenchards  and  Faund- 
ers;  his  novels  were  proper  in  sentiment  and  based  always 
upon  certain  agreeable  moral  axioms,  as  for  instance  "It  is 
better  to  be  good  than  to  be  bad"  and  "Courage  is  the  Great 


38  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Thing"  and  "Let  us  not  despise  others.  They  may  have  more 
to  say  for  themselves  than  we  know." 

It  was  wonderful,  Mrs.  Trenchard  thought,  that  anyone 
so  young  should  have  discovered  these  things.  Moreover 
he  was  cheerful,  would  talk  at  any  length  about  anything,  and 
was  full  of  self-assurance.  He  was  fat,  and  would  soon  be 
fatter;  he  was  nice  to  everyone  on  principle  because  "one 
doesn't  know  how  much  a  careless  word  may  harm  others." 
Above  all,  he  was  'jolly'.  He  proclaimed  life  splendid, 
wished  he  could  live  to  a  thousand,  thought  that  to  be  a  novel- 
ist was  the  luckiest  thing  in  the  world.  Some  people  said 
that  what  he  really  meant  was  "To  be  Seymour  was  the  luck- 
iest thing  in  the  world"  .  .  .  but  everyone  has  their  enemies. 

Henry  was  nervous  about  this  afternoon  because  he  felt — 
and  he  could  not  have  given  his  reasons — that  Mark  and  Sey- 
mour would  not  get  on.  He  knew  that  if  Mark  disliked  Sey- 
mour he,  Henry,  would  dislike  Mark.  Mark  would  be  criticis- 
ing the  Trenchard  taste — a  dangerous  thing  to  do.  And,  per- 
haps, after  all — he  was  not  sure — he  looked  across  the  dark 
intervening  shadow  into  the  light  where  Mark  was  sitting — 
the  fellow  did  look  conceited,  supercilious.  No  one  in  the 
world  had  the  right  to  be  so  definitely  at  his  ease. 

There  came  in  then  Rocket  and  a  maid  with  the  tea,  Kath- 
erine,  and  finally  Aunt  Aggie  with  Harvey  Seymour. 

"I  found  Mr.  Seymour  in  the  Hall,"  she  said,  looking  dis- 
contentedly about  her  and  shivering  a  little.  "Standing  in 
the  Hall." 

Seymour  was  greeted  and  soon  his  cheerful  laugh  filled  the 
room.  He  was  introduced  to  Mark.  He  was  busy  over  tea. 
"Sugar?  Milk?" 

"Nice  sharp  twang  in  the  air,  there  is.  Jolly  weather. 
I  walked  r.ll  the  way  from  Knightsbridge.  Delightful. 
Cake?  Bread  and  butter?  Hello,  Henry!  You  ought  to 
have  walked  with  me— never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  my 
life." 

Mrs.  Trenchard's  broad,  impassive  face  was  lighted  with 


39 

approval  as  a  lantern  is  lit.  She  liked  afternoon-tea  and  her 
drawing-room  and  young  cheerful  Seymour  and  the  books 
behind  the  book-case  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  A  cosy 
winter's  afternoon  in  London  1  What  could  be  pleasanter? 
She  sighed  a  comfortable,  contented  sigh.  .  .  . 

Mark  was  seized,  as  he  sat  there,  with  a  drowsy  torpor. 
The  fire  seemed  to  draw  from  the  room  all  scents  that,  like 
memories,  waited  there  for  some  compelling  friendly  warmth. 
The  room  was  close  with  more  than  the  Trenchard  protection 
against  the  winter's  day — it  was  packed  with  a  conscious  pres- 
sure of  all  the  things  that  the  Trenchards  had  ever  done  in 
that  room,  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  sat  motionless,  placid,  receiv- 
ing these  old  things,  encouraging  them  and  distributing  them. 
Mark  was  aware  that  if  he  encouraged  his  drowsiness  he 
would  very  shortly  acquiesce  in  and  submit  to — he  knew  not 
what — and  the  necessity  for  battling  against  this  acquiescence 
irritated  him  so  that  it  was  almost  as  though  everyone  in  the 
room  were  subtly  taking  him  captive  and  he  would  be  lost  be- 
fore he  was  aware.  Katherine,  alone,  quiet,  full  of  repose, 
saying  very  little,  did  not  disturb  him.  It  was  exactly  as 
though  all  the  other  persons  present  were  wishing  him  to 
break  into  argument  and  contradiction  because  then  they 
could  spring  upon  him. 

His  attention  was,  of  course,  directed  to  Seymour's  opin- 
ions, and  he  knew,  before  he  heard  them,  that  he  would  dis- 
agree violently  with  them  all. 

They  came,  like  the  distant  firing  of  guns,  across  the  muf- 
fled drowziness  of  the  room. 

"I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Trenchard.  ...  I  assure  you  .  .  . 
assure  you.  You  wouldn't  believe.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course, 
I've  heard  people  say  so  but  I  can't  help  disagreeing  with 
them.  One  may  know  very  little  about  writing  oneself — I 
don't  pretend  I've  got  far — and  yet  have  very  distinct  ideas 
as  to  how  the  thing  should  be  done.  There's  good  work  and 
bad,  you  know — there's  no  getting  over  it.  ... 

"But,  my  dear  Henry  .  .  .  dear  old  chap  ...  I  assure 


'40 

you.  But  it's  a  question  of  Form.  You  take  my  word  a 
man's  nothing  without  a  sense  of  Form  .  .  .  Form  .  .  . 
Form.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course,  the  French  are  the  people.  Now 
the  Kussians.  .  .  .  Tolstoi,  Dostoevsky  .  .  .  Dostoevsky, 
Mrs.  Trenchard.  Well,  people  spell  him  different  ways. 
You  should  read  'War  and  Peace'.  Never  read  'War  and 
Peace'  ?  Ah,  you  should  and  'Crime  and  Punishment'.  But 
compare  'Crime  and  Punishment'  with  'La  maison  Tel- 
lier'  .  .  .  Maupassant — The  Eussians  aren't  in  it.  But  what 
can  you  expect  from  a  country  like  that  ?  I  assure  you.  .  .  ." 

Quite  irresistibly,  as  though  everyone  in  the  room  had  said : 
"There  now.  You've  simply  got  to  come  in  now",  Mark  was 
drawn  forward.  He  heard  through  the  sleepy,  clogged  and 
scented  air  his  own  voice. 

"But  there  are  all  sorts  of  novels,  aren't  there,  just  as 
there  are  all  sorts  of  people?  I  don't  see  why  everything 
should  be  after  the  same  pattern." 

He  was  violently  conscious  then  of  Seymour's  chin  that 
turned,  slowly,  irresistibly  as  the  prow  of  a  ship  is  turned, 
towards  him — a  very  remarkable  chin  for  its  size  and 
strength,  jutting  up  and  out,  surprising,  too,  after  the  chubby 
amiability  of  the  rest  of  his  face.  At  the  same  moment  it 
seemed  to  Mark  that  all  the  other  chins  in  the  room  turned 
towards  him  with  stern  emphasis. 

A  sharp  litle  dialogue  followed  then :  Seymour  was  eager, 
cheerful  and  good-humoured — patronising,  too,  perhaps,  if 
one  is  sensitive  to  such  things. 

"Quite  so.  Of  course — of  course.  But  you  will  admit, 
won't  you,  that  style  matters,  that  the  way  a  thing's  done,  the 
way  things  are  arranged,  you  know,  count  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  writing  novels — I  only  know 
about  reading  them.  The  literary,  polished  novel  is  one 
sort  of  thing,  I  suppose.  But  there  is  also  the  novel  with 
plenty  of  real  people  and  real  things  in  it.  If  a  novel's  too 
literary  a  plain  man  like  myself  doesn't  find  it  real  at  all.  I 
prefer  something  careless  and  casual  like  life  itself,  with 


THE  WINTER  AFTERNOON  41 

plenty  of  people  whom  you  get  to  know.  .  .  ."  Seymour 
bent  towards  him,  his  chubby  face  like  a  very  full  bud  ready 
to  burst  with  the  eagerness  of  his  amiable  superiority. 

"But  you  can't  say  that  your  Russians  are  real  people — 
come  now.  Take  Dostoevsky — take  him  for  a  minute.  Look 
at  them.  Look  at  'Les  Freres  Karamazoff'.  All  as  mad  aa 
hatters — all  of  'em — and  no  method  at  all — just  chucked  on 
anyhow.  After  all,  Literature  is  something." 

"Yes,  that's  just  what  I  complain  of,"  said  Mark,  feeling 
as  though  he  were  inside  a  ring  of  eager  onlookers  who  were 
all  cheering  his  opponent.  "You  fellows  all  think  literature's 
the  only  thing.  It's  entirely  unimportant  beside  real  life. 
If  your  book  is  like  real  life,  why  then  it's  interesting.  If 
it's  like  literature  it's  no  good  at  all  except  to  a  critic  or 
two." 

"And  I  suppose,"  cried  Seymour,  scornfully,  his  chin  ris- 
ing higher  and  higher,  "that  you'd  say  Dostoevsky's  like  real 
life?" 

"It  is,"  said  Mark,  quietly,  "if  you  know  Russia." 

"Well,  I've  never  been  there,"  Seymour  admitted.  "But 
I've  got  a  friend  who  has.  He  says  that  Russian  fiction's 
nothing  like  the  real  thing  at  all.  That  Russia's  just  like 
anywhere  else." 

"Nonsense" — and  Mark's  voice  was  shaking — "Your 
friend  .  .  .  rot — "  He  recovered  himself.  "That's  utterly 
untrue,"  he  said. 

"I  assure  you — "  Seymour  began. 

Then  Mark  forgot  himself,  his  surroundings,  his  audience. 

"Oh — go  to  Blazes !"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  know  about 
it  ?  You  say  yourself  you've  never  been  thera  I've  lived  in 
Moscow  for  years !" 

There  was  then  a  tremendous  silence,  Mrs.  Trenchard, 
Aunt  Aggie,  Henry,  all  looked  at  Seymour  as  though  they 
said  "Please,  please,  don't  mind.  It  shall  never  happen 
again." 

Katherine  looked  at  Mark.    During  that  moment's  silence 


42  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

the  winter  afternoon  with  its  frost  and  clear  skies,  its  fresh 
colour  and  happy  intimacies,  seemed  to  beat  about  the  house. 
In  Mark,  the  irritation  that  he  had  felt  ever  since  Seymour's 
sentence,  seemed  now  to  explode  within  him,  like  the  bursting 
of  some  thunder  cloud.  He  was  for  a  moment  deluged,  al- 
most drowned  by  his  impotent  desire  to  make  some  scene,  in 
short,  to  fight,  anything  that  would  break  the  hot  stuffy  close- 
ness of  the  air  and  let  in  the  sharp  crispness  of  the  outer 
world. 

But  the  episode  was  at  an  end.    Katherine  closed  it  with : 
"Tell  Mr.  Seymour  some  of  those  things  that  you  were 
telling  us  last  night — about  Moscow  and  Russian  life." 

Mrs.  Trenchard's  eyes,  having  concluded  their  work  of 
consoling  Seymour,  fastened  themselves  upon  Mark, — watch- 
ing like  eyes  behind  closed  windows;  strangely  in  addition 
to  their  conviction  that  some  outrage  had  been  committed 
there  was  also  a  suspicion  of  fear — but  they  were  the  mild, 
glazed  eyes  of  a  stupid  although  kindly  woman.  .  .  . 

Mark  that  evening,  going  up  to  dress  for  dinner,  thought 
to  himself,  "I  really  can't  stay  here  any  longer.  It  isn't  de- 
cent, besides,  they  don't  like  me."  He  found,  half  in  the 
dusk,  half  in  the  moonlight  of  the  landing-window  Katherine, 
looking  for  an  instant  before  she  went  to  her  room,  at  the  dark 
Abbey-towers,  the  sky  with  the  stars  frosted  over,  it  seemed, 
by  the  coldness  of  the  night,  at  the  moon,  faintly  orange  and 
crisp  against  the  night  blue. 

He  stopped.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said  abruptly,  looking  into 
her  eyes,  very  soft  and  mild  but  always  with  that  lingering 
humour  behind  their  mildness.  "I'm  afraid  I  was  rude  to 
that  fellow  this  afternoon." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  but  with  her  eyes  still  on 
the  black  towers.  "You  were — but  it  would  have  no  effect  on 
Mr.  Seymour." 

He  felt,  as  he  stood  there,  that  he  wished  to  explain  that 
he  was  not  naturally  so  unpolished  a  barbarian. 


THE  WINTER  AFTERNOON  43 

"Russia,"  he  began,  hesitating  and  looking  at  her  almost 
appealingly,  "is  a  sore  point  with  me.  You  can't  tell — unless 
you've  lived  there  how  it  grows  upon  you,  holds  you,  and,  at 
last,  begs  you  to  stand  up  for  it  whenever  it  may  be  attacked. 
And  he  didn't  know — really  he  didn't — " 

"You're  taking  it  much  too  seriously,"  she  said,  laughing 
at  him,  he  felt.  "No  one  thought  that  he  did  know.  But 
Mother  likes  him  and  he's  Henry's  friend.  And  we  all 
stick  together  as  a  family." 

"I'm  afraid  your  mother  thought  me  abominable,"  he  said, 
looking  up  at  her  and  looking  away  again. 

"Mother's  old-fashioned,"  Katherine  answered.  "So  am  I 
— so  are  we  all.  We're  an  old-fashioned  family.  We've 
never  had  anyone  like  you  to  stay  with  us  before." 

"It's  abominable  that  I  should  stay  on  like  this.  I'll  go 
to-morrow." 

"No,  don't  do  that.  Father  loves  having  you.  We  all  like 
you — only  we're  a  little  afraid  of  your  ways" — she  moved 
down  the  passage.  "We're  very  good  for  you,  I  expect,  and 
I'm  sure  you're  very  good  for  us."  She  suddenly  turned 
back  towards  him,  and  dropping  her  voice,  quite  solemnly 
said  to  him,  "The  great  thing  about  as  is  that  we're  fond  of 
one  another.  That  makes  it  all  the  harder  for  anyone  from 
outside.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said,  carrying  on  her  note  of 
confidence,  "I  like  people  to  like  me.  I'm  very  foolish  about 
it.  It's  the  chief  thing  I  want." 

"I  like  people  to  like  me,  too,"  Katherine  answered,  rais- 
ing her  voice  and  moving  now  definitely  away  from  him. 
"Why  shouldn't  one?"  she  ended.  "Don't  you  be  afraid, 
Mr.  Mark.  It's  all  right." 

He  dressed  hurriedly  and  came  down  to  the  drawing-room, 
with  some  thought  in  the  back  of  his  mind  that  he  would, 
throughout  the  evening,  be  the  most  charming  person  possi- 
ble. He  found,  however,  at  once  a  check.  .  .  . 


44  THE  GREEK  MIRROR 

Under  a  full  blaze  of  light  Grandfather  Trenchard  and 
Great  Aunt  Sarah  were  sitting,  waiting  for  the  others.  The 
old  man,  his  silver  buckles  and  white  hair  gleaming,  sat, 
perched  high  in  his  chair,  one  hand  raised  before  the  fire, 
behind  it  the  firelight  shining  as  behind  a  faint  screen. 

Aunt  Sarah,  very  stiff,  upright  and  slim,  was  the  priestess 
before  the  Trenchard  temple.  They,  both  of  them,  gazed  into 
the  fire.  They  did  not  turn  their  heads  as  Mark  entered; 
they  had  watched  his  entry  in  the  Mirror. 

He  shouted  Good-evening,  but  they  did  not  hear  him.  He 
sat  down,  began  a  sentence. 

"Really  a  sharp  touch  in  the  air — "  then  abandoned  it, 
seizing  'Blackwood'  as  a  weapon  of  defence.  Behind  his 
paper,  he  knew  that  their  eyes  were  upon  him.  He  felt  them 
peering  into  'BlackwoodV  cover ;  they  pierced  the  pages,  they 
struck  him  in  the  face. 

There  was  complete  silence  in  the  room.  The  place  waa 
thick  with  burning  eyes.  They  were  reflected,  he  felt,  in 
the  Mirror,  again  and  again. 

"How  they  hate  mel"  he  thought. 


CHAPTEE  III 

KATHEEINE 

KATHEEINE  TKENCHARD'S  very  earliest  sense  of 
morality  had  been  that  there  were  God,  the  Trenchard'a 
and  the  Devil — that  the  Devil  wished  very  much  to  win  the 
Trenchards  over  to  His  side,  but  that  God  assured  the  Tren- 
chards  that  if  only  they  behaved  well  He  would  not  let  them 
go — and,  for  this,  Troy  had  burnt,  Carthage  been  razed  to 
the  ground,  proud  kings  driven  from  their  thrones  and  hum- 
bled to  the  dust,  plague,  pestilence,  and  famine  had  wrought 
their  worst.  .  .  . 

The  Trenchards  were,  indeed,  a  tremendous  family,  and 
it  was  little  wonder  that  the  Heavenly  Powers  should  fight 
for  their  alliance.  In  the  county  of  Glebeshire,  where  Kath- 
erine  had  spent  all  her  early  years,  Trenchards  ran  like  spid- 
ers' webs,  up  and  down  the  lanes  and  villages. 

In  Polchester,  the  Cathedral  city,  there  were  Canon 
Trenchard  and  his  family,  old  Colonel  Trenchard,  late  of  the 
Indian  army,  the  Trenchards  of  Polhaze  and  the  Trenchards 
of  Rothin  Place — all  these  in  one  small  town.  There  were 
Trenchards  at  Rasselas  and  Trenchards  (poor  and  rather  un- 
worthy Trenchards)  at  Clinton  St.  Mary.  There  was  one 
Trenchard  (a  truculent  and  gout-ridden  bachelor)  at  Pol- 
wint — all  of  these  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Kather- 
ine's  home.  Of  course  they  were  important  to  God.  .  .  . 

In  that  old  house  in  the  village  of  Garth  in  Roselands, 
where  Katherine  had  been  born,  an  old  house  up  to  its  very 
chin  in  deep  green  fields,  an  old  house  wedded,  hundreds  of 
years  ago  to  the  Trenchard  Spirit,  nor  likely  now  ever  to  be 
divorced  from  it,  Katherine  had  learnt  to  adore  with  her 

•45 


46  THE  GREEK  MIRROR 

body,  her  soul  and  her  spirit  Glebeshire  and  everything  that 
belonged  to  that  fair  county,  but  to  adore  it,  also,  because  it 
was  so  completely,  so  devoutly,  the  Trenchard  heritage.  So 
full  were  her  early  prayers  of  petitions  for  successive  Tren- 
chards.  "God  bless  Father,  Mother,  Henry,  Millie,  Vincent, 
Uncle  Tim,  Uncle  Wobert,  Auntie  Agnes,  Auntie  Betty, 
Cousin  Woger,  Cousin  Wilfrid,  Cousin  Alice,  etc.,  etc.,"  that, 
did  it  ever  come  to  a  petition  for  someone  unhappily  not  a 
Trenchard  the  prayer  was  offered  with  a  little  hesitating 
apology.  For  a  long  while  Katherine  thought  that  when 
Missionaries  were  sent  to  gather  in  the  heathen  they  were 
going  out  on  the  divine  mission  of  driving  all  strangers  into 
the  Trenchard  fold. 

!N"ot  to  be  a  Trenchard  was  to  be  a  nigger  or  a  Chinaman. 

And  here  I  would  remark  with  all  possible  emphasis  that 
Katherine  was  never  taught  that  it  was  a  fine  and  a  mighty 
thing  to  be  a  Trenchard.  No  Trenchard  had  ever,  since  time 
began,  considered  his  position  any  more  than  the  stars,  the 
moon  and  the  sun  consider  theirs.  If  you  were  a  Trenchard 
you  did  not  think  about  it  at  all.  The  whole  Trenchard 
world  with  all  its  ramifications,  its  great  men  and  its  small 
men,  its  dignitaries,  its  houses,  its  Castles,  its  pleasure-resorts, 
its  Foreign  Baths,  its  Theatres,  its  Shooting,  its  Churches, 
its  Politics,  its  Foods  and  Drinks,  its  Patriotisms  and  Chari- 
ties, its  Seas,  its  lakes  and  rivers,  its  Morality,  its  angers,  its 
pleasures,  its  regrets,  its  God  and  its  Devil,  the  whole  Tren- 
chard world  was  a  thing  intact,  preserved,  ancient,  immov- 
able. It  took  its  stand  on  its  History,  its  family  affection,  its 
country  Places,  its  loyal  Conservatism,  its  obstinacy  and  its 
stupidity.  Utterly  unlike  such  a  family  as  the  Beaminsters 
with  their  preposterous  old  Duchess  (now  so  happily  dead) 
it  had  no  need  whatever  for  any  self-assertion,  any  struggle 
with  anything,  any  fear  of  invasion.  From  Without  noth- 
ing could  attack  its  impregnability.  From  Within  ?  Well, 
perhaps,  presently  .  .  .  but  no  Trenchard  was  aware  of  that. 

A  young  Beaminster  learnt  from  the  instant  of  its  break- 


KATHERINE  47 

ing  the  Egg  that  it  must  at  once  set  about  showing  the  world 
that  it  was  a  Beaminster. 

A  young  Trenchard  never  considered  for  a  single  second 
that  he  was  supposed  to  show  anyone  anything.  HE  WAS  .  .  . 
that  was  enough. 

The  Trenchards  had  never  been  conceited  people — conceit 
implied  too  definite  a  recognition  of  other  people's  position 
and  abilities.  To  be  conceited  you  must  think  yourself  abler, 
more  interesting,  richer,  handsomer  than  someone  else — and 
no  Trenchard  ever  realised  anyone  else. 

From  the  security  of  their  Mirror  they  looked  out  upon 
the  world.  Only  from  inside  the  House  could  the  Mirror 
be  broken — surely  then  they  were  secure.  .  .  . 

Katherine  was  always  a  very  modest  little  girl,  but  her 
modesty  had  never  led  to  any  awkward  shyness  or  embarrass- 
ment; she  simply  did  not  consider  herself  at  all.  She  had 
been,  in  the  early  days,  a  funny  little  figure,  'dumpy',  with 
serious  brown  eyes  and  a  quiet  voice.  She  was  never  in  the 
way,  better  at  home  than  at  parties,  she  never  'struck'  strang- 
ers, as  did  her  younger  sister  Millicent,  'who  would  be  bril- 
liant when  she  grew  up' ;  Katherine  would  never  be  brilliant. 

She  had,  from  the  first,  a  capacity  for  doing  things  for 
the  family  without  atracting  attention — and  what  more  can 
selfish  people  desire  ?  She  was  soon  busy  and  occupied — neo- 
essary  to  the  whole  house.  She  very  seldom  laughed,  but  her 
eyes  twinkled  and  she  was  excellent  company  did  anyone  care 
for  her  opinion.  Only  Uncle  Tim  of  them  all  realised  her 
intelligence — for  the  rest  of  the  family  she  was  slow  'but  a 
dear.' 

It  was  in  her  capacity  of  'a  dear'  that  she  finally  stood 
to  all  of  them.  They  adored  because  they  knew  that  they 
never  disappointed  her.  Although  they  had,  none  of  them 
(save  Henry)  any  concern  as  to  their  especial  failings  or 
weaknesses,  it  was  nevertheless  comforting  to  know  that  they 
might  put  anything  upon  Katherine,  behave  to  her  always 
in  the  way  that  was  easiest  to  them,  and  that  she  would  al- 


48  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ways  think  them  splendid.  They  would  not  in  public  places 
put  Katherine  forward  as  a  Fine  Trenchard.  Millicent 
would  be  a  Fine  Trenchard  one  day — but  at  home,  in  their 
cosy  fortified  security,  there  was  no  one  like  Katherine. 

Katherine  was  perfect  to  them  all.  .  .  .  Not  that  she  did 
not  sometimes  have  her  tempers,  her  impatiences,  her  'moods'. 
They  were  puzzled  when  she  was  short  with  them,  when  she 
would  not  respond  to  their  invitations  for  compliments,  when 
she  seemed  to  have  some  horrible  doubt  as  to  whether  the 
Trenchard  world  was,  after  all,  the  only  one — but  they  waited 
for  the  'mood'  to  pass,  and  it  passed  very  swiftly  ...  it  is 
noteworthy  however  that  never,  in  spite  of  their  devotion  to 
her,  did  they  during  these  crises,  attempt  to  help  or  console 
her.  She  stood  alone,  and  at  the  back  of  their  love  there 
was  always  some  shadow  of  fear. 

Very  happy  had  her  early  years  been.  The  house  at  Garth, 
rambling,  untidy,  intimate,  with  the  croquet-lawn  in  front 
of  it,  the  little  wild  wood  at  the  right  of  it,  the  high  sheltering 
green  fields  at  the  left  of  it,  the  old  church  Tower  above  the 
little  wood,  the  primroses  and  cuckoos,  the  owls  and  moon- 
light nights,  the  hot  summer  days  with  the  hum  of  the  reap- 
ing machine,  the  taste  of  crushed  strawberries,  the  dim- 
sleepy  voices  from  the  village  street.  This  was  a  world !  The 
Old  House  had  never  changed — as  she  had  grown  it  had 
dwindled  perhaps,  but  ever,  as  the  years  passed,  had  enclosed 
more  securely  the  passion  of  her  heart.  She  saw  herself 
standing  in  the  dim  passage  that  led  to  her  bedroom,  a  tiny, 
stumpy  figure.  She  could  hear  the  voice  of  Miss  Mayer,  the 
governess,  "Now,  Katherine — come  along,  please — Millie's  in 
bed." 

She  could  smell  the  tallow  of  the  candle,  could  hear  the 
owls'  hoot  from  the  dark  window,  could  smell  apples  and  roses 
somewhere,  could  remember  how  intensely  she  had  caught 
that  moment  and  held  it,  and  carried  it,  for  ever  and  ever, 
away  with  her.  Yes,  that  was  a  World ! 

And,  beyond  the  House,  there  was  the  Country.     Every 


KATHERIKE  49 

lane  and  wood  and  hill  did  she  know.  Those  thick,  deep, 
scented  lanes  that  only  Glebeshire  in  all  the  world  can  pro- 
vide— the  road  to  Rafiel,  running,  at  first,  with  only  a  mo- 
ment's peep  now  and  again  of  the  sea,  then  plunging  with  dra- 
matic fling,  suddenly  down  into  the  heart  of  the  Valley. 
There  was  Rafiel — Rafiel,  the  only  Cove  in  all  the  world! 
How  as  the  dog-cart  bumped  down  that  precipice  had  her 
heart  been  in  her  mouth,  how  magical  the  square  harbour, 
the  black  Peak,  the  little  wall  of  white-washed  cottages,  after 
that  defeated  danger! 

There  were  all  the  other  places — St.  Lowe  and  Polwint, 
Polchester  with  the  Cathedral  and  the  Orchards  and  the  cob- 
bled streets,  Grane  Woods  and  Grane  Castle,  Rothin  Woods, 
Roche  St.  Mary,  Moore  with  the  seadunes  and  the  mists  and 
rabbits,  the  Loroe  river  and  the  fishing-boats  at  Pelynt — 
world  of  perfect  beauty  and  simplicity,  days  stained  with  the 
high  glory  of  romance.  And  this  was  Trenchard  Country ! 

London,  coming  to  her  afterwards,  had,  at  first,  been  hated, 
only  gradually  accepted.  She  grew  slowly  fond  of  the  old 
Westminster  house,  but  the  crowds  about  her  confused  and 
perplexed  her.  She  was  aware  now  that,  perhaps,  there  were 
those  in  the  world  who  cared  nothing  for  the  Trenchards. 
She  flew  from  such  confusion  the  more  intensely  into  her  de- 
votion to  her  own  people.  It  was  as  though,  at  the  very 
first  peep  of  the  world,  she  had  said  to  herself — "!Nb.  That 
is  not  my  place.  They  have  no  need  of  me  nor  I  of  them. 
They  would  change  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  changed." 

She  was  aware  of  her  own  duty  the  more  strongly  because, 
her  younger  sister,  Millicent,  had  taken  always  the  opposite 
outlook.    Millicent,  pretty,  slender,  witty,  attractive,  had  al- 
wa}Ts  found  home  (even  Garth  and  its  glories)  'a  little  slow'. 

The  family  had  always  understood  that  it  was  natural 
for  Millicent  to  find  them  slow — no  pains  had  been  spared 
over  Millicent's  development.  She  had  just  finished  her  edu- 
cation in  Paris  and  was  coming  back  to  London.  Always 


50  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

future  plans  now  were  discussed  with  a  view  to  finding  amuse- 
ment for  Millicent.  "Millie  will  be  here  then".  "I  wonder 
whether  Millie  will  like  him."  "You'd  better  accept  it. 
Millie  will  like  to  go." 

Beyond  all  the  family  Katherine  loved  Millicent.  It  had 
begun  when  Millie  had  been  very  small  and  Katherine  had 
mothered  her, — it  had  continued  when  Millie,  growing  older, 
had  plunged  into  scrapes  and  demanded  succour  out  of  them 
again — it  had  continued  when  Katherine  and  Millie  had  de- 
veloped under  a  cloud  of  governesses,  Millie  brilliant  and 
idle,  Katherine  plodding  and  unenterprising,  it  had  continued 
when  Millie,  two  years  ago,  had  gone  to  Paris,  had  written 
amusing,  affectionate  letters,  had  told  "Darling  Katie  that 
there  was  no  one,  no  one,  no  OWE,  anywhere  in  all  the  world, 
to  touch  her — Mme.  Roget  was  a  pig,  Mile.  Lefresne,  who 
taught  music,  an  angel,  etc.  etc." 

Now  Millicent  was  coming  home.  .  .  .  Katherine  was 
aware  that  from  none  of  the  family  did  she  receive  more  gen- 
uine affection  than  from  Henry,  and  yet,  strangely,  she  was 
often  irritated  with  Henry.  She  wished  that  he  were  more 
tidy,  less  rude  to  strangers,  less  impulsive,  more  of  a  comfort 
and  less  of  an  anxiety  to  his  father  and  mother.  She  was 
severe  sometimes  to  Henry  and  then  was  sorry  afterwards. 
She  could  'do  anything  with  him,'  and  wished  therefore  that 
he  had  more  backbone.  Of  them  all  she  understood  her 
mother  the  best.  She  was  very  like  her  mother  in  many 
ways ;  she  understood  that  inability  to  put  things  into  words, 
that  mild  conviction  that  'everything  was  all  right',  a  con- 
viction to  be  obtained  only  by  shutting  your  eyes  very  tight. 
She  understood,  too,  as  no  other  member  of  the  family  under- 
stood, that  Mrs.  Trenchard's  devotion  to  her  children  was  a 
passion  as  fierce,  as  unresting,  as  profound,  and,  possibly, 
as  devastating  as  any  religion,  any  superstition,  any  obses- 
sion. It  was  an  obsession.  It  had  in  it  all  the  glories,  the 
dangers,  the  relentless  ruthlessness  of  an  overwhelming  'idee 


KATHERINE  51 

fixe' — that  'idee  fixe'  which  is  at  every  human  being's  heart, 
and  that,  often  undiscovered,  unsuspected,  transforms  the 
world.  .  .  .  Catherine  knew  this. 

For  her  father  she  had  the  comradeship  of  a  play-fellow. 
She  could  not  take  her  father  very  seriously — he  did  not  wish 
that  she  should.  She  loved  him  always  and  he  loved  her  in 
his  'off'  moments,  when  he  was  not  thinking  of  himself  and 
his  early  Nineteenth  Century — if  he  had  any  time  that  he 
could  spare  from  himself  it  was  given  to  her.  She  thought 
it  quite  natural  that  his  spare  time  should  be  slender. 

And,  of  them  all,  no  one  enquired  as  to  her  own  heart,  her 
thoughts,  her  wonders,  her  alarms  and  suspicions,  her  happi- 
ness, her  desires.  She  would  not  if  she  could  help  it,  enquire 
herself  about  these  things — but  sometimes  she  was  aware  that 
life  would  not  for  ever,  leave  her  alone.  She  had  one  friend 
who  was  not  a  Trenchard,  and  only  one.  This  was  Lady 
Seddon,  who  had  been  before  her  marriage  a  Beaminster 
and  grand-daughter  of  the  old  Duchess  of  Wrexe.  Rachel 
Beaminster  had  married  Roddy  Seddon.  Shortly  after  their 
marriage  he  had  been  flung  from  his  horse,  and  from  that 
time  had  been  always  upon  his  back — it  would  always  be  so 
with  him.  They  had  one  child — a  boy  of  two — and  they 
lived  in  a  little  house  in  Regent's  Park. 

That  friendship  had  been  of  Rachel  Seddon's  making.  She 
had  driven  herself  in  upon  Katherine  and,  offering  her  baby 
as  a  reward,  had  lured  Katherine  into  her  company — but 
even  to  her,  Katherine  had  not  surrendered  herself.  Rachel 
Seddon  was  a  Beaminster,  and  although  the  Beaminster 
power  was  now  broken,  about  that  family  there  lingered 
traditions  of  greatness  and  autocratic  splendour.  Neither 
Rachel  nor  Roddy  Seddon  was  autocratic,  but  Katherine 
would  not  trust  herself  entirely  to  them.  It  was  as  though 
she  was  afraid  that  by  doing  so  she  would  be  disloyal  to  her 
own  people. 

This,  then,  was  Katherine's  world. 


§2  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Upon  the  morning  of  the  November  day  when  Millicent 
was  to  make,  upon  London,  her  triumphal  descent  from  Paris, 
Katherine  found  herself,  suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  Wig- 
more  Street,  uneasy — Wigmore  Street  was  mild,  pleasantly 
lit  with  a  low  and  dim  November  sun,  humming  with  a  little 
etir  and  scatter  of  voices  and  traffic,  opening  and  shutting  its 
doors,  watching  a  drove  of  clouds,  like  shredded  paper,  sail 
through  the  faint  blue  sky  above  it.  Katherine  stopped  for 
an  instant  to  consider  this  strange  uneasiness.  She  looked 
about  her,  thought,  and  decided  that  she  would  go  and  see 
Rachel  Seddon. 

Crossing  a  little  finger  of  the  Park,  she  stopped  again. 
The  shredded  clouds  were  dancing  now  amongst  the  bare 
stiff  branches  of  the  trees  and  a  grey  mist,  climbing  over  the 
expanse  of  green,  spread  like  thin  gauze  from  end  to  end  of 
the  rising  ground.  A  little  soughing  wind  seemed  to  creep 
about  her  feet.  She  stopped  again  and  stood  there,  a  solitary 
figure.  For,  perhaps,  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  consid- 
ered herself.  She  knew,  as  she  stood  there,  that  she  had  for 
several  days  been  aware  of  this  uneasiness.  It  was  as  though 
someone  had  been  knocking  at  a  door  for  admittance.  She 
had  heard  the  knocking,  but  had  refused  to  move,  saying  to 
herself  that  soon  the  sound  would  cease.  But  it  had  not 
ceased,  it  was  more  clamorous  than  before.  She  was  fright- 
ened— why?  Was  it  Millie's  return?  She  knew  that  it 
was  not  that  .  .  . 

Standing  there,  in  the  still  Park,  she  seemed  to  hear  some- 
thing say  to  her  "You  are  to  be  caught  up.  .  .  .  Life  is  com- 
ing to  you.  .  .  .  You  cannot  avoid  it.  ...  You  are  caught." 

She  might  have  cried  to  the  sky,  the  trees,  the  little  pools 
of  dead  and  sodden  leaves  "What  is  it?  What  is  it?  Do 
you  hear  anything?"  A  scent  of  rotting  leaves  and  damp 
mist,  brought  by  the  little  wind,  invaded  her.  The  pale  sun 
struck  through  the  moist  air  and  smiled  down,  a  globe  of 
gold,  upon  her.  There  came  to  her  that  moment  of  revela- 
tion that  tells  human  beings  that,  fine  as  they  may  think  them- 


KATHERINE  53 

Belves,  full  of  courage  and  independent  of  all  men,  Life,  if  it 
exert  but  the  softest  pressure,  may  be  too  strong  for  them — 
the  armies  of  God,  with  their  certain  purpose,  are  revealed 
for  a  brief  instant  entrenched  amongst  the  clouds.  "If  we 
crush  you  what  matters  it  to  Us  ?" 

She  hurried  on  her  way,  longing  for  the  sound  of  friendly 
voices,  and,  when  she  found  Rachel  Seddon  with  her  son  in 
the  nursery,  the  fire,  the  warm  colours,  the  absurd  rocking- 
horse,  armies  of  glittering  soldiers  encamped  upon  the  red 
carpet,  the  buzz  of  a  sewing-machine  in  the  next  room,  above 
all,  Michael  Seddon's  golden  head  and  Rachel's  dark  one, 
she  could  have  cried  aloud  her  relief. 

Rachel,  tall  and  slender,  dark  eyes  and  hair  from  a  Rus- 
sian mother,  restless,  impetuous,  flinging  her  hands  out  in 
some  gesture,  catching  her  boy,  suddenly,  and  kissing  him, 
breaking  off  in  the  heart  of  one  sentence  to  begin  another,  was 
a  strange  contrast  to  Katherine's  repose.  Soon  Katherine 
was  on  the  floor  and  Michael,  who  loved  her,  had  his  arms 
about  her  neck. 

"That's  how  she  ought  always  to  be,"  thought  Rachel, 
looking  down  at  her.  "How  could  anyone  ever  say  that  she 
was  plain!  Roddy  thinks  her  so.  ...  He  should  see  her 
now." 

Katherine  looked  up.  "Rachel,"  she  said,  "I  was  fright- 
ened just  now  in  the  Park.  I  don't  know  why — I  almost 
ran  here.  I'm  desperately  ashamed  of  myself." 

"You— frightened?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  someone  was  coming  out  from  behind  a 
tree  to  slip  a  bag  over  my  head,  I — Oh !  I  don't  know  what 
I  thought.  .  .  ." 

Then  she  would  say  no  more.  She  played  with  Michael 
and  tried  to  tell  him  a  story.  Here  she  was,  as  she  had 
often  been  before,  unsuccessful.  She  was  too  serious  over 
the  business,  would  not  risk  improbabilities  and  wanted  to 
emphasise  the  moral.  She  was  not  sufficiently  absurd  .  .  . 
gravely  her  eyes  sought  for  a  decent  ending.  She  looked  up 


54  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

and  found  that  Michael  had  left  her  and  was  moving  his 
soldiers. 

The  sun,  slanting  in,  struck  lines  of  silver  and  gold  from 
their  armour  across  the  floor. 

As  she  got  up  and  stood  there,  patting  herself  to  see 
whether  she  were  tidy,  her  laughing  eyes  caught  Rachel. 

"There !  You  see !  I'm  no  good  at  thai! — no  imagination 
— father's  always  said  so." 

"Katie,"  Rachel  said,  catching  her  soft,  warm,  almost 
chubby  hand,  "there's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there?" 

"The  matter !    No !  what  should  there  be  ?" 

"It's  so  odd  for  you  to  say  what  you  did  just  now.  And  I 
think — I  don't  know — you're  different  to-day." 

"No,  I'm  not."  Katherine  looked  at  her.  "It  was  the 
damp  Park,  all  the  bare  trees  and  nobody  about." 

"But  it's  so  unlike  you  to  think  of  damp  Parks  and  bare 
trees." 

"Well — perhaps  it's  because  Millie's  coming  back  from 
Paris  this  afternoon.  I  shall  be  terrified  of  her — so  smart 
she'll  be!" 

"Give  her  my  love  and  bring  her  here  as  soon  as  she'll  come. 
She'll  amuse  Roddy."  She  paused,  searching  in  Katherine's 
brown  eyes — "Katie — if  there's  ever — anything — anything — 
I  can  help  you  in  or  advise  you — or  do  for  you.  You  know, 
don't  you  ?  .  .  .  You  always  will  be  so  independent.  You 
don't  tell  me  things.  Remember  I've  had  my  times — worse 
times  than  you  guess." 

Katherine  kissed  her.  "It's  all  right,  Rachel,  there's  noth- 
ing the  matter — except  that  ...  no,  nothing  at  all.  Good- 
bye, dear.  Don't  come  down.  I'll  bring  Millie  over." 

She  was  gone — Rachel  watched  her  demure,  careful  prog- 
ress until  she  was  caught  and  hidden  by  the  trees. 

There  had  been  a  little  truth  in  her  words  when  she  told 
Rachel  that  she  dreaded  Millie's  arrival.  If  she  had  ever, 
in  the  regular  routine  of  her  happy  and  busy  life,  looked  for- 


KATHERINE  55 

ward  to  any  event  as  dramatic  or  a  crisis,  that  moment  had 
always  been  Millie's  return  from  Paris.  Millie  had  been 
happy  and  affectionate  at  home,  but  nevertheless  a  critic. 
She  had  never  quite  seen  Life  from  inside  the  Trenchard 
Mirror  nor  had  she  quite  seen  it  from  the  vision  of  family 
affection.  She  loved  them  all — but  she  found  them  slow,  un- 
adventurous,  behind  the  times.  That  was  the  awful  thing — 
'behind  the  times' — a  terrible  accusation.  If  Millie  had  felt 
that  (two  years  ago)  how  vehemently  would  she  feel  it  now ! 
.  .  .  and  Katherine  knew  that  as  she  considered  this  criticism 
of  Millie's  she  was  angry  and  indignant  and  warm  with  an 
urgent,  passionate  desire  to  protect  her  mother  from  any 
criticism  whatever.  "Behind  the  times",  indeed — Millie  had 
better  not.  .  .  .  And  then  she  remembered  the  depth  of  her 
love  for  Millie  .  .  .  nothing  should  interfere  with  that. 

She  was  in  her  bedroom,  after  luncheon,  considering  these 
things  when  there  was  a  tap  on  the  door  and  Aunt  Betty 
entered.  In  her  peep  round  the  door  to  see  whether  she 
might  come  in,  in  the  friendly,  hopeful,  reassuring  butterfly 
of  a  smile  that  hovered  about  her  lips,  in  the  little  stir  of  her 
clothes  as  she  moved  as  though  every  article  of  attire  was 
assuring  her  that  it  was  still  there,  and  was  very  happy  to 
be  there  too,  there  was  the  whole  of  her  history  written. 

It  might  be  said  that  she  had  no  history,  but  to  such  an 
assertion,  did  she  hear  it,  she  would  offer  an  indignant  denial, 
could  she  be  indignant  about  anything.  She  had  been  per- 
fectly, admirably  happy  for  fifty-six  years,  and  that,  after 
all,  is  to  have  a  history  to  some  purpose.  She  had  nothing 
whatever  to  be  happy  about.  She  had  no  money  at  all,  and 
had  never  had  any.  She  had,  for  a  great  number  of  years, 
been  compelled  to  live  upon  her  brother's  charity,  and  she 
was  the  most  independent  soul  alive.  In  strict  truth  she  had, 
of  her  own,  thirty  pounds  a  year,  and  the  things  that  she 
did  with  those  thirty  pounds  are  outside  and  beyond  any  cal- 
culation. "There's  always  my  money,  George,"  she  would 
say  when  her  brother  had  gloomy  forebodings  about  invest- 


56  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ments.  She  lived,  in  fact,  a  minute,  engrossing,  adventurous, 
flaming  life  of  her  own,  and  the  flame,  the  colour,  the  fire 
were  drawn  from  her  own  unconquerable  soul.  In  her  bed- 
room— faded  wall-paper,  faded  carpet,  faded  chairs  because 
no  one  ever  thought  of  her  needs — she  had  certain  possessions, 
a  cedar-wood  box,  a  row  of  books,  a  water-colour  sketch,  pho- 
tographs of  the  family  (Katherine  3^,  Vincent  8  years  old, 
Millicent  10  years,  etc.,  etc.),  a  model  of  the  Albert  Memo- 
rial done  in  pink  wax,  a  brass  tray  from  India,  some  mother- 
of-pearl  shells,  two  china  cats  given  to  her,  one  Christmas  day, 
by  a  very  young  Katherine — those  possessions  were  her  world. 
She  felt  that  within  that  bedroom  everything  was  her  own. 
She  would  allow  no  other  pictures  on  the  wall,  no  books  not 
hers  in  the  bookcase.  One  day  when  she  had  some  of  the 
thirty  pounds  'to  play  with'  she  would  cover  the  chairs  with 
beautiful  cretonne  and  she  would  buy  a  rug — so  she  had  said 
for  the  last  twenty  years.  She  withdrew,  when  life  was  tire- 
some, when  her  sister  Aggie  was  difficult,  when  there  were 
quarrels  in  the  family  (she  hated  quarrels)  into  this  world 
of  her  own,  and  would  suddenly  break  out  in  the  midst  of 
a  conversation  with  "I  might  have  the  bed  there"  or  "There 
isn't  really  room  for  another  chair  if  I  had  one,"  and  then 
would  make  a  little  noise  like  a  top,  'hum,  hum,  hum'.  In 
defiance  of  her  serenity  she  could  assume  a  terrible  rage  and 
indignation  were  any  member  of  the  family  attacked.  Her 
brother  George  and  Katherine  she  loved  best — she  did  not, 
although  she  would  never  acknowledge  it,  care  greatly  for 
Henry — Millie  she  admired  and  feared.  She  had  only  to 
think  of  Katherine  and  her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears  .  .  . 
she  was  a  very  fount  of  sentiment.  She  had  suffered  much 
from  her  sister  Agnes,  but  she  had  learnt  now  the  art  of 
withdrawal  so  perfectly  that  she  could  escape  at  any  time 
without  her  sister  being  aware  of  it.  "You  aren't  listening, 
Elizabeth,"  Agnes  would  cry  suspiciously. 

"Yes,  dear  Aggie,  I  am.     I  don't  think  things  as  bad  as 
you  say.    For  instance/'  and  a  wonderful  recovery  would  re- 


KATHERINE  57 

assure  suspicion.  The  real  core  of  her  life  was  Katherine 
and  Katharine's  future.  There  was  to  be,  one  day,  for  Kath- 
erine a  most  splendid  suitor — a  Lord,  perhaps,  a  great  poli- 
tician, a  great  Churchman,  she  did  not  know — but  someone 
who  would  realise  first  Katherine's  perfection,  secondly  the 
honour  of  being  made  a  Trenchard,  thirdly  the  necessity  of 
spending  all  his  life  in  the  noble  work  of  making  Katherine 
happy.  "I  shall  miss  her — we  shall  all  miss  her — but  we 
mustn't  be  selfish — hum,  hum — she'll  have  one  to  stay,  per- 
haps." 

Very  often  she  came  peeping  into  Katherine's  room  as  she 
came  to-day.  She  would  take  Katherine  into  her  confidence ; 
she  would  offer  her  opinion  about  the  events  of  the  hour. 
She  took  her  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  giving  little 
excited  pecks  at  one  of  her  fingers,  the  one  that  suffered  most 
from  her  needle  when  she  sewed,  a  finger  scarred  now  by  a 
million  little  stabs.  So  she  stood  now,  and  Katherine,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  looked  up  at  her. 

"I  came  in,  my  dear,  because  you  hardly  ate  any  luncheon. 
I  watched  you — hardly  any  at  all." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Aunt  Betty.    I  wasn't  hungry." 

"I  don't  like  your  not  eating — hum,  hum.  No,  I  don't. 
Mother  always  used  to  say  'Don't  Eat,  can't  Beat' — of  mili- 
tary forces,  you  know,  dear,  or  anything  that  had  a  hard 
task  to  perform." 

She  looked  about  her  with  an  aimless  and  rather  nervous 
smile,  which  meant  that  she  had  something  to  say  but  was 
afraid  of  it. 

"Katie,  dear,  do  you  know  ?"  (This  with  an  air  of  intense 
importance.)  "I  don't  think  I'll  show  Millie  my  room — not 
just  at  first  at  any  rate." 

"Oh,  but  you  must.    She'll  be  longing  to  see  it." 

"Well,  but — will  she,  do  you  think?  Oh,  no,  she  won't, 
not  after  Paris.  .  .  .  Paris  is  so  grand.  Perhaps,  later  I 
will — show  it  her.  I  mean  when  she's  more  accustomed  to  the 
old  life." 


58  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

But  even  now  it  was  plain  that  she  had  not  delivered  her 
purpose.  It  was  imprisoned,  like  a  mouse  in  a  very  woolly 
moth-eaten  trap.  Soon  there  will  be  a  click  and  out  it  will 
come! 

Her  wandering,  soft,  kindly  eyes  looked  gravely  upon 
Katherine. 

"My  dear,  I  wish  you'd  eaten  something.  Only  a  little 
mince  and  two  of  those  cheese  biscuits.  .  .  .  Katie  dear,  did 
you  hear  what  Mr.  Mark  said  at  luncheon  about  leaving  us  ?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Betty." 

"He  said  he'd  got  somewhere  from  next  Monday.  Poor 
young  man — not  so  young  now  either — but  he  seems  lonely. 
I'm  glad  we  were  able  to  be  kind  to  him  at  first.  Katie,  I 
have  an  'Idea'."  Impossible  to  give  any  picture  of  the  eager- 
ness with  which  now  her  eyes  were  lit  and  her  small  body 
strung  on  a  tiptoe  of  excitement,  "I  have  an  idea.  ...  I 
think  he  and  Millie — I  think  he  might  be  just  the  man  for 
Millie — adventurous,  exciting,  knowing  so  much  about  Rus- 
sia— and,  after  Paris,  she'll  want  someone  like  that." 

Katherine  turned  slowly  away  from  her  aunt,  gazing 
vaguely,  absent-mindedly,  as  though  she  had  not  been  think- 
ing of  the  old  lady's  words. 

"Oh,  no,  Aunt  Betty.  I  don't  think  so — What  an  old 
matchmaker  you  are !" 

"I  love  to  see  people  happy.  And  I  like  him.  I  think 
it's  a  pity  he's  going  on  Monday.  He's  been  here  a  fortnight 
now.  I  like  him.  He's  polite  to  me,  and  when  a  young  man 
is  polite  to  an  old  woman  like  me  that  says  a  lot — hum,  hum 
— yes,  it  does.  But  your  mother  doesn't  like  him — I  wonder 
why  not — but  she  doesn't.  I  always  know  when  your  mother 
doesn't  like  anybody.  Millie  will.  ...  I  know  she  will. 
But  I  don't  think  I'll  show  her  my  things — not  at  first,  not 
right  after  Paris." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  wait  a  little."  Katherine 
went  and  sat  in  front  of  her  mirror.  She  touched  the  things 
on  her  dressing-table. 


CATHERINE  59 

"I'll  go  now,  dear — I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  only 
having  had  that  mince.  My  eye  will  be  on  you  at  dinner, 
mind." 

She  peeped  out  of  the  door,  looked  about  her  with  her 
bright  little  eyes,  then  whisked  away. 

Katherine  sat  before  her  glass,  gazing.  »But  not  at  her- 
self. She  did  not  know  whose  face  it  was  that  stared  back 
at  her. 

Millie's  entrance  that  afternoon  was  very  fine.  There  were 
there  to  receive  her,  her  grandfather,  her  great-aunt  (in 
white  boa),  her  father,  her  mother,  Henry,  Katherine,  Aunt 
Betty  and  Aggie,  Philip  Mark,  Esq.  She  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  the  drawing-room  radiant  with  health,  good  spirits 
and  happiness  at  being  home  again — all  Trenchards  always 
are.  Like  Katherine  in  the  humour  of  her  eyes,  otherwise 
not  at  all — tall,  dark,  slim  in  black  and  white,  a  little  black 
hat  with  a  blue  feather,  a  hat  that  was  over  one  ear.  She 
had  her  grandfather's  air  of  clear,  finely  cut  distinction,  but 
so  alive,  so  vibrating  with  health  was  she  that  her  entrance 
extinguished  the  family  awaiting  her  as  you  blow  out  a 
candle.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  black  eyes  sparkled, 
her  arms  were  outstretched  to  all  of  them. 

"Here  I  am!"  she  seemed  to  say,  "I'm  sure  you've  for- 
gotten in  all  this  time  how  delightful  I  am! — and  indeed 
I'm  ever  so  much  more  delightful  than  I  was  before  I  went 
away.  In  any  case  here  I  am,  ready  to  love  you  all.  And 
there's  no  family  in  the  world  I'd  be  gladder  to  be  a  member 
of  than  this!" 

Her  sharp,  merry,  inquisitive  eyes  sought  them  all  out — 
sought  out  the  old  room  with  all  the  things  in  it  exactly  as 
she  had  always  known  them,  and  then  the  people — one  after 
the  other — all  of  them  exactly  as  she  had  always  known 
them.  .  .  . 

She  was  introduced  to  Philip  Mark.  Her  eyes  lingered  up 
him,  for  an  instant,  mischievously,  almost  interrogatively. 


60  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

To  him  she  seemed  to  say:  "What  on  earth  are  you  doing 
inside  here  ?  How  did  you  ever  get  in  ?  And  what  are  you 
here  for?"  She  seemed  to  say  to  him:  "You  and  I — we 
know  more  than  these  others  here — but  just  because  of  that 
we're  not  half  so  nice." 

"Well,  Henry,"  she  said,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  laughing 
at  him  and  blushed.  He  knew  that  his  socks  were  hanging 
loosely.  He  had  lost  one  of  his  suspenders. 

"Well,  Millie,"  he  answered,  and  thought  how  beautiful 
she  was. 

It  was  one  of  the  Trenchard  axioms  that  anyone  who 
crossed  the  English  Channel  conferred  a  favour — it  was  nice 
of  them  to  go,  as  though  one  visited  a  hospital  or  asked  a  poor 
relation  to  stay.  Paris  must  have  been  glad  to  have  had 
Millie — it  must  have  been  very  gay  for  Paris — and  that  not 
because  Millie  was  very  wonderful,  but  simply  because  Paris 
wasn't  English. 

"It  must  be  nice  to  be  home  again,  Millie  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Trenchard  comfortably. 

Millie  laughed  and  for  a  moment  her  eyes  flashed  across 
at  Philip  Mark,  but  he  was  looking  at  Katherine.  She 
looked  round  upon  them  all,  then,  as  though  she  were  won- 
dering how,  after  all,  things  were  going  to  be  now  that  she 
had  come  home  'for  good' — now  that  it  would  be  always  and 
always — well,  perhaps  not  always.  She  looked  again  at 
Philip  Mark  and  liked  him.  She  surrendered  herself  then  to 
the  dip  and  splash  and  sparkle  of  the  family  waters  of  affec- 
tion. They  deluged  and  overwhelmed  her.  Her  old  grand- 
father and  the  great-aunt  sat  silently  there,  watching,  with 
their  bird-like  eyes,  everything,  but  even  upon  their  grim 
features  there  were  furrowed  smiles. 

"And  the  crossing  was  really  all  right?"  "The  trees  in 
the  Park  were  blowing  rather.  .  .  ."  "And  so,  Milly  dear, 
I  said  you'd  go.  I  promised  for  you.  But  you  can  get  out 
of  it  as  easily  as  anything.  .  .  ." 

"You  must  have  been  sorry,  as  it  was  the  last  time,  but 


KATHERINE  61 

you'll  be  able  to  go  back   later  on  and  see  them.  .  .  ." 

And  her  father.  "Well,  they've  had  her  long  enough,  and 
now  it's  our  turn  for  a  bit.  She's  been  spoiled  there.  .  .  . 
She  won't  get  any  spoiling  here.  .  .  ." 

He  roared  with  laughter,  flinging  his  head  back,  coming 
over  and  catching  Millie's  head  between  his  hands,  laughing 
above  her  own  laughing  eyes.  Henry  watched  them,  his 
father  cynically,  his  sister  devotedly.  He  was  always  em- 
barrassed by  the  family  demonstrations,  and  he  felt  it  the 
more  embarrassing  now  because  there  was  a  stranger  in  their 
midst.  Philip  was  just  the  man  to  think  this  all  odd.  .  .  . 
But  Henry  was  anxious  about  the  family  behaviour  simply 
because  he  was  devoted  to  the  family,  not  at  all  because  he 
thought  himself  superior  to  it. 

Then  Milly  tore  herself  away  from  them  all.  She  looked 
at  Katherine. 

"I'm  going  up  to  my  room.  Katy,  come  up  and  help 
me—" 

"I'd  better  come  and  help  you,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 
"There's  sure  to  be  a  mess.  .  .  ." 

But  Milly  shook  her  head  with  a  slight  gesture  of  im- 
patience. "No,  no,  Mother  .  .  .  Katy  and  I  will  manage." 

"Hilda  will  do  everything  if — " 

"No,  I  want  to  show  Katy  things.  .  .  ." 

They  went. 

When  the  two  girls  were  alone  in  the  bedroom  and  the 
door  was  closed  Milly  flung  her  arms  round  Katherine  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again.  They  stood  there,  in  the  silence, 
wrapped  in  one  another's  arms. 

"Katy — darling — if  you  only  knew,  all  this  time,  how 
I've  longed  for  you.  Sometimes  I  thought  'I  must — I  must 
— see  her' — that's  you.  I'd  run  away — I'd  do  anything.  I 
don't  think  anything  matters  now  that  I've  got  you  again — 
and  I've  so  much  to  tell  you !" 

They  sat  down  on  the  bed,  Millie  vibrating  with  the  ex- 
citement of  her  wonderful  experiences,  Katherine  quiet,  but 


62  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

with  one  hand  pressing  Millie's  and  her  eyes  staring  into 
distance. 

Suddenly  Millie  stopped. 

"Katie,  dear,  who's  this  man  ?" 

"Whatman?" 

"The  nice-looking  man  I  saw  downstairs." 

"Oh,  he's  a  Mr.  Mark.  Son  of  a  great  friend  of  father's. 
He's  lived  in  Russia — Moscow — for  years.  He  came  in  by 
mistake  one  night  in  a  fog  and  found  that  ours  was  the  house 
he  was  coming  to  next  day — then  Father  asked  him  to  stay — " 

"Do  you  like  him  ?" 

"Yes.    He's  very  nice." 

"He  looks  nice." 

Milly  went  on  again  with  her  reminiscences.  Katherine, 
saying  only  a  word  now  and  then,  listened. 

Then,  exactly  as  though  she  had  caught  some  unexpected 
sound,  Milly  broke  off  again. 

"Katy— Katy." 

"Yes." 

"You're  different,  something's  happened  to  you." 

"My  dear ! — nothing,  of  course." 

"Yes,  something  has. — Something  .  .  .  Katy!"  And 
here  Milly  flung  her  arms  again  about  her  sister  and  stared 
into  her  eyes.  "You're  in  love  with  someone." 

But  Katherine  laughed.  "That's  Paris,  Milly  dear — Paris 
—Paris." 

"It  isn't.  It  isn't.  It's  you.  There  is  someone.  Katy, 
darling,  tell  me — you've  always  told  me  everything:  who  is 
he  ?  tell  me." 

Katherine  drew  herself  away  from  Milly's  embrace,  then 
turned  round,  looking  at  her  sister.  Then  she  caught  her 
and  kissed  her  with  a  sudden  urgent  passion.  "There's  no 
one,  of  course  there's  no  one.  I'm  the  old  maid  of  the  fam- 
ily. You  know  we,  lon^  ago,  decided  that.  I'm  not  .  .  ." 
she  broke  off,  laughed,  got  up  from  the  bed.  She  looked  at 
Milly  as  though  she  were  setting,  subduing  some  thoughts 


KATHERINE  63 

in  her  mind.  "I'm  just  the  same,  Milly.  You're  different,  of 
course." 

At  a  sudden  sound  both  the  girls  looked  up.  Their  mother 
stood  in  the  doorway,  with  her  placidity,  her  mild  affection ; 
she  looked  about  the  room. 

"I  had  to  come,  my  dears,  to  see  how  you  were  getting 
on."  She  moved  forward  slowly  towards  them. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FOREST 

PART  of  a  letter  that  Philip  Mark  wrote  to  his  friend : — 
"...  I  couldn't  stay  any  longer.  They'd  had  me 
there  a  fortnight  and  then  one  of  the  daughters  came  home 
from  being  'finished'  in  Paris,  so  that  they've  really  no  room 
for  strangers.  I've  moved  here — not  very  far  away — three 
furnished  rooms  in  an  upper  part  in  a  small  street  off  Vic- 
toria Street.  It's  quiet  with  an  amazing  quietness  consider- 
ing its  closeness  to  all  the  rattle.  The  Roman  Catholic  Cathe- 
dral is  just  round  the  corner — hideous  to  look  at,  but  it's  nice 
inside.  There's  a  low  little  pub.  opposite  that  reminds  me 
comfortably  of  one  of  our  beloved  Trakteer' — you  see  I'm 
sentimental  about  Moscow  already — more  so  every  day. 

"I've  so  much  to  tell  you,  and  yet  it  comes  down  to  one 
very  simple  thing.  I've  found,  I  believe,  already  the  very 
soul  I  set  out  to  find,  set  out  with  yours  and  Anna's  bless- 
ing, remember.  You  mayn't  tell  her  yet.  It's  too  soon  and 
it  may  so  easily  come  to  nothing,  but  I  do  believe  that  if  I'd 
searched  England  through  and  through  for  many  years  I 
could  never  have  found  anyone  so — so — exactly  what  I  need. 
You  must  have  guessed  in  that  very  first  letter  that  it  had, 
even  then,  begun.  It  began  from  the  instant  that  I  saw  her — 
it  seems  to  me  now  to  be  as  deeply  seated  in  me  as  my  own 
soul  itself.  But  you  know  that  at  the  root  of  everything  is  my 
own  distrust  in  myself.  Perhaps  if  I  had  never  gone  to  Rus- 
sia I  should  have  had  more  confidence,  but  that  country,  as  I 
see  it  now,  stirs  always  through  the  hearts  of  its  lovers,  ques- 
tions about  everything  in  heaven  or  earth  and  then  tells  one 
at  the  end  that  nothing  matters.  And  the  Englishman  that 

64 


THE  FOREST  65 

is  in  me  has  always  fought  that  distrust,  has  called  it  senti- 
mental, feeble,  and  then  again  I've  caught  back  the  supersti- 
tion and  the  wonder.  In  Russia  one's  so  close  to  God  and  the 
Devil — in  England  there  is  business  and  common-sense.  Be- 
tween the  two  I'm  pretty  useless.  If  you  had  once  seen  Kath- 
erine  you'd  know  why  she  seems  to  me  a  refuge  from  all  that 
I've  been  fighting  with  Anna  for  so  long.  She's  clear  and 
true  as  steel — so  quiet,  so  sure,  so  much  better  and  finer  than 
myself  that  I  feel  that  I'm  the  most  selfish  hound  in  the 
world  to  dream  of  attaching  her  to  me.  Mind  you,  I  don't 
know  at  present  that  she's  interested;  she's  so  young  and 
ignorant  in  so  many  ways,  with  all  her  calm  common-sense, 
that  I'm  terrified  of  alarming  her,  and  if  she  doesn't  care  for 
me  I'll  never  disturb  her — never.  But  if  she  should — well, 
then,  I  believe  that  I  can  make  her  happy — I  know  myself 
by  now.  I've  left  my  Moscow  self  behind  me  just  as  Anna 
said  that  I  must.  There's  nothing  stranger  than  the  way 
that  Anna  foretold  it  all.  That  night  when  she  shewed  me 
that  I  must  go  she  drew  a  picture  of  the  kind  of  woman  whom 
I  must  find.  She  had  never  been  to  England,  she  had  only, 
in  all  her  life,  seen  one  or  two  Englishwomen,  but  she  knew, 
she  knew  absolutely.  It's  as  though  she  had  seen  Katherine 
in  her  dreams.  .  .  . 

"But  I'm  talking  with  absurd  assurance.  Putting  Kath- 
erine entirely  aside  there  is  all  the  family  to  deal  with.  Tren- 
chard  himself  likes  me — Mrs.  Trenchard  hates  me.  That's 
not  a  bit  too  strong,  and  the  strange  thing  is  that  there's 
no  reason  at  all  for  it  that  I  can  see,  nor  have  we  been,  either 
of  us,  from  the  beginning  anything  but  most  friendly  to  one 
another.  If  she  suspected  that  I  was  in  love  with  Katherine 
I  might  understand  it,  but  that  is  impossible.  There  has  been 
nothing,  I  swear,  to  give  anyone  the  slightest  suspicion.  She 
detects,  I  think,  something  foreign  and  strange  in  me.  Rus- 
sia of  course  she  views  with  the  deepest  suspicion,  and  it 
would  amuse  you  to  hear  her  ideas  of  that  country.  Nothing, 
although  she  has  never  been  near  it  nor  read  anything  but 


66  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

silly  romances  about  it,  could  shake  her  convictions.  Be- 
cause I  don't  support  them  she  knows  me  for  a  liar.  She  is 
always  calm  and  friendly  to  me,  but  her  intense  dislike  comes 
through  it  all.  And  yet  I  really  like  her.  She  is  so  firm  and 
placid  and  determined.  She  adores  her  family — she  will 
fight  for  them  to  the  last  feather  and  claw.  She  is  so  sure 
and  so  certain  about  everything,  and  yet  I  believe  that  in 
her  heart  she  is  always  afraid  of  something — it's  out  of  that 
fear,  I  am  sure,  that  her  hatred  of  me  comes.  For  the  others, 
the  only  one  who  troubled  about  me  was  the  boy,  and  he  is 
the  strangest  creature.  He'd  like  me  to  give  him  all  my  ex- 
periences: he  hasn't  the  slightest  notion  of  them,  but  he'a 
morbidly  impatient  of  his  own  inexperience  and  the  way  his 
family  are  shutting  him  out  of  everything,  and  yet  he's  Tren- 
chard  enough  to  disapprove  violently  of  that  wider  expe- 
rience if  it  came  to  him.  He'd  like  me,  for  instance,  to  take 
him  out  and  show  him  purple  restaurants,  ladies  in  big  hats, 
and  so  on.  If  he  did  so  he'd  feel  terribly  out  of  it  and  then 
hate  me.  He's  a  jumble  of  the  crudest,  most  impossible  and 
yet  rather  touching  ideas,  enthusiasms,  indignations,  virtues, 
would-be  vices.  He  adores  his  sister.  About  that  at  least 
he  is  firm — and  if  I  were  to  harm  her  or  make  her  un- 
happy! .  .  . 

"I  suppose  it's  foolish  of  me  to  go  on  like  this.  I'm  in- 
dulging myself,  I  can  talk  to  no  one.  So  you  .  .  .  just  as  I 
used  to  in  those  first  days  such  years  ago  when  I  didn't  know 
a  word  of  Russian,  came  and  sat  by  the  hour  in  your  flat, 
talked  bad  French  to  your  wife,  and  found  all  the  sympathy 
I  wanted  in  your  kind  fat  face,  even  though  we  could  only 
exchange  a  word  or  two  in  the  worst  German.  How  good 
you  were  to  me  then !  How  I  must  have  bored  you !  .  .  . 
There's  no  one  here  willing  to  be  bored  like  that.  To  an 
Englishman  time  is  money — none  of  that  blissful  ignoring 
of  the  rising  and  setting  of  sun,  moon,  and  stars  that  for  so 
many  years  I  have  enjoyed.  'The  morning  and  the  evening 
were  the  first  day.  .  .  .'  It  was  no  Russian  God  who  said 


THE  FOKEST  67 

that.  I've  found  some  old  friends — Millet,  Thackeray,  you'll 
remember — they  were  in  Moscow  two  years  ago.  But  with 
them  it  is  'Dinner  eight  o'clock  sharp,  old  man — got  an  en- 
gagement nine-thirty.'  So  I'm  lonely.  I'd  give  the  world 
to  see  your  fat  body  in  the  doorway  and  hear  your  voice  rise 
into  that  shrill  Russian  scream  of  pleasure  at  seeing  me. 
You  should  sit  down — You  should  have  some  tea  although 
I've  no  Samovar  to  boil  the  water  in,  and  I'd  talk  about  Kath- 
erine,  Katherine,  Katherine — until  all  was  blue.  And  you'd 
say  'Harosho'  'Harosho' — and  it  would  be  six  in  the  morn- 
ing before  we  knew.  .  .  .  God  help  us  all,  I  mustn't  talk 
about  it.  It  all  comes  to  this,  in  the  end,  as  to  whether  a 
man  can,  by  determination  and  resolve,  of  his  own  will,  wipe 
out  utterly  the  old  life  and  become  a  new  man.  All  those 
Russian  years — Anna,  Paul,  Paul's  death,  all  the  thought, 
the  view,  the  vision  of  life,  the  philosophy  that  Russia  gave 
me — those  things  have  got  to  disappear.  .  .  .  They  never  ex- 
isted. I've  got  again  what,  all  those  years,  you  all  said  that 
I  wanted — the  right  to  be  once  again  an  English  citizen  with 
everything,  morals  and  all,  cut  and  dried.  I  can  say,  like 
old  Vladimir  after  his  year  in  Canada,  'I'd  never  seen  so 
many  clean  people  in  my  life.'  I've  got  what  I  wanted,  and 
I  mustn't — I  musn't — look  back. 

"I  believe  I  can  carry  it  all  through  if  I  can  get  Kather- 
ine— get  her  and  keep  her  and  separate  her  from  the  family. 
She's  got  to  belong  to  me  and  not  to  the  Trenchards.  Mos- 
cow— The  Trenchards !  Oh,  Paul,  there's  a  Comedy  there — 
and  a  tragedy  too  perhaps.  I'm  an  ass,  but  I'm  frightened. 
I  think  I'm  doing  the  finest  things  and,  when  they're  done, 
they  turn  out  the  rottenest.  Supposing  I  become  a  Tren- 
chard  myself  ?  Think  of  that  night  when  Paul  died.  After- 
wards we  went  up  to  the  Kremlin,  you  remember.  How 
quiet  it  was  and  how  entirely  I  seemed  to  have  died  with 
Paul,  and  then  how  quickly  life  WP:,  the  same  again.  But 
at  any  rate  Moscow  cared  for  me  and  told  me  that  it  cared — 
London  cares  nothing  .  .  .  not  even  for  the  Trenchards.  .  .  . 


68 

"Think  of  me,  Paul,  as  often  as  you  can.  Think  of  that 
afternoon  in  the  restaurant  when  you  first  showed  me  how 
to  drink  Vodka  and  I  told  you  in  appalling  German  that 
Byron  and  Wilde  weren't  as  good  as  you  thought  them.  .  .  . 
Think  of  me,  old  man.  I  believe  I'm  in  for  a  terrible  busi- 
ness. If  Katherine  loves  me  the  family  will  fight  me.  If 
she  doesn't  love  me  nothing  else  now  seems  to  matter  .  .  . 
and,  with  it  all,  I'm  as  lonely  as  though  I  were  a  foreigner 
who  didn't  know  a  word  of  English  and  hadn't  a  friend.  .  .  . 
I've  got  my  Ikon  up  on  the  right  corner — Near  it  is  a  print 
of  'Queen  Victoria  receiving  news  of  her  accession  to  the 
throne  of  England'  .  .  ." 

Philip  Mark  sat,  day  after  day,  in  his  ugly  sitting-room 
and  thought  of  Katherine  Trenchard.  It  was  nearly  a  fort- 
night now  since  he  had  come  to  these  rooms — he  had  not, 
during  that  time,  seen  Katherine;  he  had  called  once  at  the 
Trenchard's  house;  he  had  spent  then  half  an  hour  alone 
with  Mrs.  Trenchard  and  Aunt  Aggie. 

In  these  fourteen  days  she  had  grown  from  an  attractive 
thought  into  a  compelling,  driving  impulse.  Because  his 
rooms  were  unattractive  and  because  he  was  sick  for  Mos- 
cow (although  he  would  not  admit  that)  therefore  he  had 
turned  to  the  thought  of  her  to  comfort  him ;  now  he  was  a 
slave  to  the  commination  of  it.  .  .  .  He  must  see  her,  he 
must  speak  to  her,  he  must  have  something  to  remember.  .  .  . 
He  must  not  speak  to  her,  he  must  not  see  her  lest  he  should 
be  foolish  and  ruin  all  his  friendship  with  her  by  frighten- 
ing her;  and,  meanwhile,  in  these  long,  long  evenings  the 
lamp  from  the  street  below  trembled  and  trembled  on  his  wall 
as  though  London,  like  some  hostile  policeman,  were  keeping 
its  eye  upon  him,  and  warned  him  not  to  go  too  far. 

The  history  of  Philip  Mark,  its  past,  its  present,  and  its 
future,  is  to  be  found  clf.rly  written  in  the  character  of  his 
mother.  His  mother  had  been  a  woman  of  great  force,  resolve 
and  determination.  She  had  in  complete  subjection  those 


THE  FOKEST  69 

who  composed  her  world.  She  was  kind  as  the  skilful  execu- 
tioner is  kind  who  severs  a  head  with  one  neat  blow;  her 
good-humoured  husband,  her  friendly,  sentimental,  idealistic 
son  submitted,  utterly,  without  question,  to  her  kindness. 
She  had  died  when  Philip  was  twenty-one,  and  instantly 
Philip  and  his  father  had  discovered,  to  their  immense  sur- 
prise, their  immense  relief.  Philip's  father  had  married  at 
once  a  young  clergyman's  daughter  of  no  character  at  all, 
and  was  compelled  to  divorce  her  four  years  later.  Philip, 
to  show  his  new  and  splendid  independence,  had  discovered 
an  opening  in  a  cloth  business  in  Moscow.  He  went  there 
and  so  remained  until,  in  his  thirtieth  year,  the  death  of  his 
father  had  presented  him  with  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

Always,  through  all  the  Russian  time,  it  had  been  his 
dream  that  he  would  one  day  be  an  English  landowner  with 
a  house  and  a  wood,  fields  and  children,  white  gates  and  a 
curving  drive.  He  had  come  home  now  to  realise  this  am- 
bition. 

The  central  motive  of  Philip's  existence  was  that  he  al- 
ways desired,  very  seriously,  sometimes  desperately,  to  be  all 
these  things  that  the  elements  in  his  character  would  always 
prevent  him  from  being.  For  instance,  awaking,  at  his 
mother's  death,  from  her  relentless  domination,  he  resolved 
that  he  would  never  be  influenced  by  anyone  again;  five 
minutes  after  this  determination  he  was  influenced  by  the 
doctor  who  had  attended  his  mother,  the  lawyer  who  read  her 
will,  and  the  clergyman  who  buried  her. 

It  had  seemed  to  him,  as  he  grew  up  in  England,  that  the 
finest  thing  in  the  world  was  to  be  (when  he  was  sixteen)  like 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  (when  he  was  nineteen)  like  Shelley, 
(when  he  was  twenty-one)  like  Tolstoi,  and  the  worst  thing  in 
the  world  was  to  be  a  commonplace  English  Squire.  He  went 
to  Russia  and,  at  once,  concluded  that  there  was  nothing  like 
the  solid,  sensible  beef-eating  English  Squire  for  helping  on 
the  World,  and  that,  as  I  have  said,  as  soon  &B  he  was  rich 


70  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

enough  he  would  settle  down  in  England,  with  his  estate,  his 
hunters  and  his  weekly  'Spectator'. 

Meanwhile  he  was  influenced  more  and  more  by  Russia  and 
the  Russians.  He  did  not  really  desire  to  be  strong,  sober, 
moral,  industrious,  strong-minded,  but  only  kindly,  affection- 
ate, tolerant,  with  every  one  man  for  his  friend.  .  .  .  He 
found  in  Russia  that  the  only  thing  demanded  of  him  was 
that  he  should  love  his  brother.  He  made  an  immense  num- 
ber of  friends,  lived  with  a  Russian  girl,  Anna  Petrovna 
Semyonov,  (she  danced  in  the  Moscow  Imperial  Ballet)  for 
three  years,  and  had,  by  her,  a  son  who  died.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  his  father's  death  gave  him  the  opportunity  of 
doing  what  he  had  always  declared  to  every  Russian  was 
the  ambition  of  his  life — to  settle  in  England  as  an  English 
land-owner.  Anna  was  fond  of  him  now,  but  not  at  all  in 
love  with  him — they  were  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  She 
believed,  very  seriously,  that  the  greatest  thing  for  him  would 
be  to  find  a  nice  English  girl  whom  he  could  love,  marry,  and 
make  the  mother  of  his  children. 

Philip  had,  during  these  Russian  years,  grown  stronger  in 
character,  and  still  was  determined  that  the  worst  thing  in 
the  world  was  to  be  under  anyone's  domination.  He  was 
however  under  the  power  of  anyone  who  showed  him  affec- 
tion; his  outlook  was  now  vehemently  idealistic,  romantic 
and  sentimental,  although,  in  the  cloth  business,  he  was  hard- 
headed,  cynical,  and  methodical.  Did  a  human  being  care 
for  him,  and  he  would  do  anything  for  him ;  under  the  influ- 
ence of  anyone's  affection  the  world  became  so  rosy  to  him 
that  he  lost  all  count  of  time,  common-sense  and  digestion. 

Anna  was  really  fond  of  him,  although  often  enough  she 
was  desperately  bored  with  him.  She  had  always  mothered 
him,  but  thought  now  that  an  English  girl  would  mother  him 
better.  She  sent  him  home.  He  was  very  young  for  his 
thirty  years,  but  then  from  the  age  of  anyone  who  has  lived 
in  Russia  for  long,  you  may  take  away,  always,  twenty  years. 

He  was  resolved  now  to  be  the  most  English  of  all  Eng- 


THE  FOREST  71 

lish — to  be  strong,  hard-headed,  a  little  cynical,  unsentimen- 
tal. .  .  .  He  had,  of  course,  fallen  in  love  with  the  first  Eng- 
lish girl  whom  he  met.  Meanwhile  he  did  not  entirely  assist 
his  cynical  hardheadedness  by  writing  long,  introspective  let- 
ters to  his  Russian  friend.  However,  to  support  his  resolute 
independence,  he  had  always  in  front  of  him  on  his  writing- 
table  a  photograph  of  his  mother. 

"It  shall  never  be  like  that  again",  he  would  say  to  him- 
self, looking  fixedly  at  the  rather  faded  picture  of  a  lady 
of  iron-grey  hair  and  a  strong  bosom  clad  in  shining  black 
silk.  "Won't  it,  my  son?"  said  his  mother,  looking  back 
at  him  with  a  steely  twinkle  somewhere  in  her  eye.  "Won't 
it?" 

Meanwhile  there  was  no  place  in  London  where,  at  three 
in  the  morning,  he  might  drink  with  his  friends  and  dis- 
cover that  all  the  world  loved  him.  He  was  very  lonely  in 
London,  and  wanted  Katherine  more  desperately  with  every 
tick  of  the  Ormolu  clock  on  the  marble  mantelpiece ;  but  he 
would  not  go  to  see  her.  .  .  .  One  glance  at  his  mother's 
photograph  was  enough  to  settle  that.  No,  he  would  not.  .  .  . 

Then  he  met  her.  Upon  a  lonely  November  afternoon  he 
walked  along  the  Embankment,  past  Lambeth  Bridge,  into 
the  melancholy,  deserted  silences  of  Pimlico.  He  turned 
back,  out  of  the  little  grey  streets  on  to  the  river  again,  and 
stood,  for  a  while,  looking  back  over  the  broad  still  sheet  of 
the  river,  almost  white  in  colour  but  streaked  with  black 
lines  of  shadow  that  trembled  and  wavered  as  though  they 
were  rods  about  to  whip  the  water  into  storm.  The  sky  was 
grey,  and  all  the  buildings  clustered  against  it  were  grey, 
but  slowly,  as  though  some  unseen  hand  were  tearing  the 
sky  like  tissue  paper,  a  faint  red  background  was  stealing 
into  the  picture  and  even  a  little  faint  gold  that  came  from 
God  knows  where  flitted,  in  and  out,  upon  the  face  of  the 
river. 

Heavy  black  barges  lay,  like  ancient  prehistoric  beasts, 
in  the  slime  left  now  by  the  retreating  tide.  One  little  tug 


72  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

pushed  desperately  up  stream  as  though  it  would  force  some 
energy  into  this  dreaming,  dying  world — a  revolutionary 
striving  to  stir  the  dim  silences  that  watched,  from  either 
bank,  into  protest. 

The  air  was  sharply  cold  and  there  was  a  smell  of  smoke 
somewhere — also  of  tar  and  cabbage  and  mud.  .  .  .  The  red 
light  pushed  and  pushed  its  way  upwards. 

The  silence  emphasised,  with  rather  a  pleasing  melancholy, 
Philip's  loneliness.  It  seemed,  down  here,  as  though  Lon- 
don were  a  dead  city  and  he,  only,  alive  in  it.  Katherine, 
too,  was  alive  somewhere.  .  .  .  He  looked  and,  as  in  one's 
dreams  absurdity  tumbles  upon  the  heels  of  absurdity,  he 
saw  her  walking  alone,  coming,  as  yet  without  any  recogni- 
tion in  her  eyes,  towards  him. 

The  world  was  dead  and  he  was  dead  and  Katherine — let 
it  stay  so  then.  .  .  .  No,  the  world  was  alive.  She  had  rec- 
ognised him;  she  had  smiled — the  air  was  suddenly  warm 
and  pulsating  with  stir  and  sound.  As  she  came  up  to  him 
he  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  strange  difference  that  his 
fortnight's  absorption  in  her  had  made  for  him.  His  being 
with  her  now  was  as  though  he  had  arrived  at  some  long- 
desired  Mecca  after  a  desperate  journey  of  dust  and  strain 
and  peril.  As  he  greeted  her  he  felt  "A  fortnight  ago  we 
had  only  just  met,  but  now  we  have  known  each  other  for 
years  and  years  and  years — but  perhaps  she  does  not  know 
that  yet." 

But  he  knew,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  that  she  felt  a 
little  awkwardness  simply  because  she  was  so  glad  to  see 
him — and  she  had  never  been  awkward  with  him  before. 

"You've  been  hiding  from  us,"  she  said.  Her  cheeks  were 
flaming  because  she  had  walked  fast,  because  the  air  was 
frosty — because  she  was  glad  to  see  him.  Her  coat  and  muff 
were  a  little  old-fashioned  and  not  very  becoming  to  her— 
all  the  more  did  he  praise  the  beautiful  kindliness  of  her 
eyes.  "I'm  in  love  with  you,"  he  wanted  to  say  to  her.  "Do 
you  care  that  I  am  ?"  ...  He  turned  at  her  side  and  they 


THE  FOEEST  73 

faced  together  the  reddening  sky.  The  whole  city  lay  in 
absolute  silence  about  them  as  though  they  were  caught  to- 
gether into  a  ball  of  grey  evening  cloud. 

"I  haven't  hidden,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  came  and  called, 
but  you  were  not  there." 

"I  heard,"  she  answered,  "Aunt  Aggie  said  you  were 
very  agreeable  and  amusing — I  hope  you're  happy  in  your 
rooms." 

"They're  all  right." 

"We  miss  you.  Father's  always  beginning  to  tell  you 
something  and  then  finding  that  you're  gone.  Henry — " 

"Your  Mother?" 

"Ah,  you  were  quite  wrong  about  Mother.  You  thought 
that  she  disliked  you.  You  care  much  too  much,  by  the  way, 
whether  people  like  you  or  no.  But  Mother's  hard,  perhaps, 
to  get  to  know.  You  shocked  and  disturbed  her  a  little,  but 
she  didn't  dislike  you." 

Although  he  had  asserted  so  definitely  that  Mrs.  Trenchard 
hated  him,  he  had  reassured  himself,  in  his  own  heart,  that 
she  rather  liked  him — now  when  he  saw  in  spite  of  Kather- 
ine's  words  that  she  really  had  disliked  him,  he  felt  a  little 
shock  of  dismay. 

"You  may  say  what  you  like,"  he  said,  "I  know — " 

"No,  you  don't  understand.  Mother  is  so  absorbed  by 
all  of  us.  There  are  a  great  many  of  us,  you  know — that 
it  takes  a  long  time  for  her  to  realise  anyone  from  outside. 
You  were  so  much  from  outside.  She  was  just  beginning 
to  realise  you  when  you  went  away.  We  are  all  so  much 
to  her.  In  a  family  as  big  as  ours  there  are  always  so  many 
things.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  know.  As  to  myself,  it's  natural 
enough.  At  present  I  miss  Moscow — but  that  will  be  all 
right  soon." 

She  came  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  her  eyee  were  so  kindly 
that  he  looked  down  upon  the  ground  leet  his  own  eyes  should 
betray  him. 


74  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Look  here — come  to  us  whenever  you  like.  Why,  all  this 
time,  have  you  kept  away  ?  Wasn't  it  what  you  were  always 
telling  us  about  your  friends  in  Moscow  that  their  houses 
were  open  to  everyone  always  ?  You  must  miss  that.  Don't 
be  lonely  whatever  you  do.  There  are  ever  so  many  of 
us,  and  some  of  us  are  sure  to  be  in." 

"I  will,"  he  said,  stammering,  "I  will." 

"Henry's  always  asking  questions  about  Russia  now. 
You've  had  a  great  effect  upon  him,  and  he  wants  you  to  tell 
him  ever  so  much  more.  Then  there's  Millie.  She  hasn't 
seen  you  at  all  yet.  You'll  like  her  so  much.  There's  Vin- 
cent coming  back  from  Eton.  Don't  be  lonely  or  homesick. 
I  know  how  miserable  it  is." 

They  were  in  the  Square  by  the  Church  outside  her  house ; 
above  the  grey  solid  building  the  sky  had  been  torn  into 
streaming  clouds  of  red  and  gold. 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  suddenly  as  she  felt 
his  pressure  the  colour  flooded  her  face;  she  strove  to  beat 
it  down — she  could  not.  She  tried  to  draw  her  hand  away — 
but  her  own  body,  as  though  it  knew  better  than  she,  defied 
her.  She  tried  to  speak — no  words  would  come. 

She  tried  to  tell  him  with  her  eyes  that  she  was  indiffer- 
ent, but  her  glance  at  him  showed  such  triumph  in  his  gaze 
that  she  began  to  tremble. 

Then  he  released  her  hand.  She  said  nothing — only  with 
quick  steps  hurried  into  the  house.  He  stood  there  until 
she  had  disappeared,  then  he  turned  round  towards  his  rooms. 

He  strode  down  Victoria  Street  in  such  a  flame  of  exul- 
tation as  can  flare  this  World  into  splendour  only  once  or 
twice  in  a  lifetime.  It  was  the  hour  when  the  lights  come 
out,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  himself  flung  fire  here, 
there,  for  all  the  world  to  catch,  now  high  into  a  lamp-post, 
now  low  beneath  some  basement  window,  now  like  a  cracker 
upon  some  distant  trees,  now,  high,  high  into  the  very  eve- 
ning blue  itself.  The  pavement,  the  broad  street,  the  high, 


THE  FOREST  75 

mysterious  buildings  caught  and  passed  the  flame  from  one 
to  another. 

An  ancient  newspaper  man,  ragged  in  a  faded  tail  coat, 
was  shouting  "Finals!  Finals!  All  the  Finals!"  but  to 
Philip's  ear  he  was  saying — "She  cares  for  you!  she  cares 
for  you !  Praise  God !  What  a  world  it  is." 

He  stumbled  up  the  dark  stairs  of  his  house  past  the  door 
from  whose  crevices  there  stole  always  the  scent  of  patchouli, 
past  the  door,  higher  up,  whence  came,  creeping  up  his  stairs 
the  suggestion  of  beef  and  cabbage,  into  his  own  dark  lodg- 
ing. His  sitting-room  had  its  windows  still  open  and  its 
blinds  still  up.  The  lamp  in  the  street  below  flung  its  squares 
of  white  light  upon  his  walls ;  papers  on  his  table  were  blow- 
ing in  the  evening  breeze,  and  the  noise  of  the  town  climbed 
up,  looked  in  through  the  open  windows,  fell  away  again, 
climbed  up  again  in  an  eternal  indifferent  urgency.  He  was 
aware  that  a  man  stood  by  the  window,  a  wavering  shadow 
was  spread  against  the  lighted  wall. 

Philip  stopped  in  the  doorway. 

"Hullo!"  he  said,  "who's  there?" 

A  figure  came  forward.  Philip,  to  whom  all  the  world 
was,  to-night,  a  fantasy,  stared,  for  a  moment,  at  the  large 
bearded  form  without  recognising  it — wild  and  unreal  as  it 
seemed  in  the  dim  room.  The  man  chuckled. 

"Well,  young  man.  I've  come  to  call,  I  got  here  two 
minutes  before  you." 

It  was  Uncle  Tim,  Mrs.  Trenchard's  brother,  Timothy 
Faunder,  Esq. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Philip,  "the  room  was  dark 
and — and — as  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  thinking  of  something 
rather  hard  as  I  came  in.  Wait  a  minute.  You  shall  have 
some  light,  tea  and  a  cigarette  in  a  moment" 

"No,  thanks."  Uncle  Tim  went  back  to  the  window  again. 
"No  tea — no  cigarette.  I  hate  the  first.  The  second's  poi- 
sonous. I've  got  a  pipe  here — and  don't  light  up — the  room's 


76  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

rather  pleasant  like  this.     I  expect  it's  hideous  when  one 
can  see  it." 

Philip  was  astonished.  He  had  liked  Tim  Faunder,  but 
had  decided  that  Tim  Faunder  was  indifferent  to  him — quite 
indifferent.  For  what  had  he  come  here  ?  Sent  by  the  fam- 
ily ?  ...  Yes,  he  liked  Uncle  Tim,  but  he  did  not  want  him 
or  anyone  else  in  the  world  there  just  then.  He  desired  to 
sit  by  the  open  window,  alone,  to  think  about  Katherine,  to 
worship  Katherine! 

They  both  sat  down ;  Faunder  on  the  window-seat,  Philip 
near  by.  The  noise  of  the  town  was  distant  enough  to  make 
a  pleasant  rumbling  accompaniment  to  their  voices.  The 
little  dark  public-house  opposite  with  its  beery  eye,  a  dim 
hanging  lamp  in  the  doorway,  watched  them. 

"Well,  how  are  you  ?"  said  Faunder,  "lonely  ?" 

"It  was  at  first,"  said  Philip,  who  found  it  immensely 
difficult  to  tie  his  thoughts  to  his  visitor.  "And  I  hadn't 
been  lonely  for  so  long — not  since  my  first  days  in  Moscow." 

"They  were  lonely  then  ?" 

"Oh,  horribly.  My  first  two  months  there  were  the  worst 
hours  in  all  my  life.  I  wanted  to  learn  Russian,  so  I  kept 
away  from  English  people — and  Russian's  difficult  to  pick 
up  at  first." 

Faunder  made  one  of  the  rumbling  noises  in  his  throat 
that  always  testified  to  his  interest. 

"I  like  what  you  said — over  there,  at  my  sister's,"  he 
waved  his  hand,  "about  Russia — and  about  everything.  I 
listened,  although  perhaps  you  didn't  think  it.  I  hope  you're 
going  to  stick  to  it,  young  man." 

"Stick  to  what?" 

"Your  ideas  about  things — everything  being  for  the  best 
There's  a  great  time  coming — and  the  Trenchards  are 
damned  fools." 

"But  I  never—" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did.  You  implied  it.  Nobody  minded, 
of  course,  because  the  Trenchards  know  so  well  that  they're 


THE  FOREST  Y7 

not.  They  don't  bother  what  people  think,  bless  them.  Be- 
sides, you  don't  understand  them  in  the  least — nor  won't 
ever,  I  expect." 

"But,"  said  Philip,  "I  really  never  thought  for  a  moment." 

"Don't  be  BO  afraid  of  hurting  people's  feelings.  I  liked 
your  confidence.  I  liked  your  optimism.  I  just  came  this 
afternoon  to  see  whether  a  fortnight  alone  had  damped  it  a 
little," 

Philip  hesitated.  It  would  be  very  pleasant  to  say  that 
no  amount  of  personal  trouble  could  alter  his  point  of  view; 
it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  say  that  the  drearier  his  personal 
life  was  the  surer  he  was  of  his  Creed.  He  hesitated — then 
spoke  the  truth. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  afraid  it  was  dimmed  for  a  bit. 
Russia  seemed  so  far  away  and  so  did  England,  and  I  was 
hanging  in  mid-air,  between.  But  ngw — everything's  all 
right  again." 

"Why  now  ?  .  .  .  Because  I've  paid  you  a  call  ?" 

Uncle  Timothy  laughed. 

Philip  looked  down  at  the  little  public-house.  "I'm  very 
glad  you  have.  But  this  afternoon — it's  been  the  kind  of 
day  I've  expected  London  to  give  me,  it  seemed  to  settle  me 
suddenly  with  a  jerk,  as  though  it  were  pushing  me  into  my 
place  and  saying,  'There!  now  I've  found  a  seat  for  you'." 

He  was  talking,  he  knew,  at  random,  but  he  was  very  con- 
scious of  Uncle  Timothy,  the  more  conscious,  perhaps,  be- 
cause he  could  not  see  his  face. 

Then  he  bent  forward  in  his  chair.  "It  was  very  jolly  of 
you,"  he  said,  "to  come  and  see  me — but  tell  me,  frankly, 
why  you  did.  We  scarcely  spoke  to  one  another  whilst  I 
was  at  your  sister's  house." 

"I  listened  to  you,  though.  Years  ago  I  must  have  been 
rather  like  you.  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Thirty." 

"Well,  when  I  was  thirty  I  was  an  idealist.  I  was  im- 
patient of  my  family  although  I  loved  them.  I  thought  the 


78  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

world  was  going  to  do  great  things  in  a  year  or  two.  I  be- 
lieved most  devoutly  in  the  Millennium.  I  grew  older — I 
was  hurt  badly.  I  believed  no  longer,  or  thought  I  didn't. 
I  determined  that  the  only  thing  in  life  was  to  hold  oneself 
absolutely  aloof.  I  have  done  that  ever  since.  ...  I  had 
forgotten  all  these  years  that  I  had  ever  been  like  you.  And 
then  when  I  heard  once  again  the  same  things,  the  same  be- 
liefs .  .  ."  He  broke  off,  lit  his  pipe,  puffed  furiously  at 
it  and  watched  the  white  clouds  sail  into  the  night  air. 

"Whatever  I  have  felt,"  said  Philip,  slowly,  "however  I 
have  changed,  to-night  I  know  that  I  am  right.  To-night  I 
know  that  all  I  believed  in  my  most  confident  hour  is  true." 

The  older  man  bent  forward  and  put  his  hand  on  Philip's 
arm. 

"Stick  to  that.  Remember  at  least  that  you  said  it  to  me. 
If  before  I  died.  .  .  .  There  have  been  times.  .  .  .  After 
the  Boer  War  here  in  England  it  seemed  that  things  were 
moving.  There  was  new  life,  new  blood,  new  curiosity. 
But  then  I  don't  know — it  takes  so  long  to  wake  people  up. 
You  woke  me  up  a  little  with  your  talk.  You  woke  them  all 
up — a  little.  And  if  people  like  my  sister  and  my  brother-in- 
law — whom  I  love,  mind  you — wake  up,  why  then  it  will  be 
painful  for  them  but  glorious  for  everyone  else." 

Philip  was  more  alarmed  than  ever.  He  had  not,  at  all, 
wished  to  wake  the  Trenchards  up — he  had  only  wanted  them 
to  like  him.  He  was  a  little  irritated  and  a  little  bored  with 
Uncle  Timothy.  If  only  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  allowed 
him  to  love  Katherine,  he  did  not  care  if  they  never  woke 
up  in  all  their  lives.  He  felt  too  that  he  did  not  really  fill 
the  picture  of  the  young  ardent  enthusiast  He  was  bound, 
he  knew,  to  disappoint  Uncle  Timothy.  He  would  have 
liked  to  have  taken  him  by  the  hand  and  said  to  him :  "Now 
if  only  you  will  help  me  to  marry  Katherine  I  will  be  as 
optimistic  as  you  like  for  ever  and  ever." 

But  Uncle  Tim  was  cleverer  than  Philip  supposed. 
"You're  thinking — how  tiresome  1  Here's  this  old  man  fore- 


THE  FOREST  79 

ing  me  into  a  stained-glass  window.  Don't  think  that.  I 
know  you're  an  ordinary  nice  young  fellow  just  like  any- 
one else.  It's  your  age  that's  pleasant.  I've  lived  very  much 
alone  all  these  years  at  a  little  house  I've  got  down  in  Glebe- 
shire.  You  must  come  and  see  it.  You're  sure  to  stay  with 
my  sister  there ;  she's  only  five  minutes  away.  But  I've  been 
so  much  alone  there  that  I've  got  into  the  habit  of  talking  to 
myself." 

Philip  at  once  loved  Uncle  Tim. 

"I'm  delighted  that  you  came.  If  you'll  let  me  be  a  friend 
of  yours  I  shall  be  most  awfully  proud.  It  was  only  that  I 
didn't  want  you  to  expect  too  much  of  me.  One  gets  into 
the  way  in  Russia  of  saying  that  things  are  going  to  be 
splendid  because  they're  so  bad — and  really  there  they  do 
want  things  to  be  better.  And  often  I  do  think  that  there's 
going  to  be,  one  day,  a  new  world.  And  many  people  now 
think  about  it  and  hope  for  it — perhaps  they  always  did." 

Uncle  Timothy  got  up.  "That's  all  right,  my  son.  We'll 
be  friends.  Come  and  see  me.  London's  a  bit  of  a  forest — 
one  can't  make  out  always  quite  what's  going  on.  You'll  get 
to  know  all  of  us  and  like  us,  I  hope.  Come  and  see  me. 
Yes?" 

"Of  course  I  will." 

"I've  got  a  dirty  little  room  in  Westminster,  14  Barton 
Street.  I  go  down  to  Glebeshire  for  Christmas,  thank  God. 
Good-night." 

He  clumped  away  down  the  stairs.  He  had  stayed  a  very 
short  time,  and  Philip  felt  vaguely  that,  in  some  way  or  an- 
other, Uncle  Tim  had  been  disappointed  in  him.  For  what 
had  he  come  ?  What  had  he  wanted  ?  Had  the  family  sent 
him  ?  Was  the  family  watching  him  ? 

That  sense  that  Philip  had  had  during  the  early  days  in 
London  suddenly  returned.  He  felt,  in  the  dark  room,  in  the 
dark  street,  that  the  Trenchards  were  watching  him.  From 
the  old  man  down  to  Henry  they  were  watching  him,  waiting 
to  see  what  he  would  do. 


80  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Did  Uncle  Tim  think  that  he  loved  Katherine  ?  Had  he 
come  to  discover  that  ? 

Although  it  was  early,  the  room  -was  very  cold  and  very 
dark.  Philip  knew  that  for  an  instant  he  was  so  afraid 
that  he  dared  not  look  behind  him. 

"London's  a  forest.  .  .  ." 

And  Katherine  I  At  the  thought  of  her  he  rose,  defied  all 
the  Trenchards  in  the  world,  lit  his  lamp  and  pulled  down 
the  hlinds.  The  smell  of  Uncle  Tim's  tobacco  was  very 
strong  in  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FITTEST  THING 

WHEN  a  stranger  surveys  the  life  of  a  family  it  is  very 
certain  that  the  really  determining  factor  in  the  de- 
velopment of  that  group  of  persons  will  escape  his  notice. 
For  instance,  in  surveying  the  Trenchards,  Philip  had  disre- 
garded Aunt  Aggie. 

As  this  is  a  record  of  the  history  of  a  family  and  not  only 
of  individuals,  Aunt  Aggie  must  be  seriously  considered;  it 
was  the  first  ominous  mistake  that  Philip  made  that  he  did 
not  seriously  consider  her.  Agnes  Trenchard,  when  quite  a 
young  girl,  had  been  pretty  in  a  soft  and  rounded  manner. 
Two  offers  of  marriage  had  been  made  to  her,  but  she  had 
refused  these  because  she  had  a  great  sense  of  her  destiny. 
From  her  first  thinking  moment  she  had  considered  herself 
very  seriously.  She  had  very  high  ideals ;  the  finest  thing  in 
this  world  was  a  life  of  utter  unselfishness,  a  life  of  noble 
devotion  and  martyred  self-interest.  She  looked  about  her 
and  could  see  no  signs  of  such  lives;  all  the  more  then  was 
it  clear  that  she  was  set  apart  to  give  the  world  such  an  ex- 
ample. Unfortunately,  allied  to  this  appreciation  of  a  fine 
self-sacrificing  character  was  a  nature  self-indulgent,  indo- 
lent and  suspicious.  Could  she  be  unselfish  without  trouble 
or  loss  then  how  unselfish  she  would  be !  She  liked  the  idea 
of  it  immensely.  .  .  . 

For  some  years  she  was  pretty,  sang  a  little  and  obviously 
'thought  more'  than  either  of  her  sisters.  People  listened 
then  to  her  creed  and  believed  in  her  intentions.  She  talked 
often  of  unselfishness,  was  always  ready  to  do  anything  for 

81 


82  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

anybody,  and  was  always  prevented  or  forestalled  by  less  al- 
truistic people.  When,  after  her  two  offers  of  marriage,  she 
stepped  very  quickly  into  the  shapes  and  colours  of  an  old 
maid,  went  to  live  with  her  sister-in-law  and  brother,  and 
formed  'habits',  people  listened  to  her  less  readily.  She  her- 
self however,  quite  unaware  that  at  thirty-five,  life  for  a 
woman  is,  sexually,  either  over  or  only  just  commencing, 
hoped  to  continue  the  illusions  of  her  girlhood.  The  nobility 
of  unselfishness  appealed  to  her  more  than  ever,  but  she  found 
that  the  people  around  her  were  always  standing  in  her  way. 
She  became,  therefore,  quite  naturally,  rather  bitter.  Her 
round  figue  expressed,  in  defiance  of  its  rotundity,  peevish- 
ness. 

She  had  to  account  for  her  failures  in  self-sacrificing  al- 
truism, and  found  it  not  in  her  own  love  of  ease  and  dislike 
of  effort,  but,  completely,  in  other  people's  selfishness.  Had 
she  been  permitted  she  would  have  been  the  finest  Trenchard 
alive,  and  how  fine  that  was  only  a  Trenchard  could  know! 
But  the  world  was  in  a  conspiracy  against  her — the  world, 
and  especially  her  sister  Elizabeth,  whom  she  despised  and 
bullied,  but,  somewhere  in  her  strange  suspicious  crust  of  a 
heart,  loved.  That  was,  perhaps,  the  strangest  thing  about 
her — that,  in  spite  of  her  ill-humo\ir,  discontents  and  irri- 
tations, she  really  loved  the  family,  and  would  like  to  have 
told  it  so  were  she  not  continually  prevented  by  its  extraor- 
dinary habit  of  being  irritating  just  when  she  felt  most  af- 
fectionate !  She  really  did  love  them,  and  she  would  go  down 
sometimes  in  the  morning  with  every  Intention  of  saying  so, 
but  in  five  minutes  they  had  destroyed  that  picture  of  her- 
self which,  during  her  absence  from  them,  she  had  painted — 
for  that,  of  course,  she  could  not  forgive  them. 

In  the  mansion  of  the  human  soul  there  are  many  cham- 
bers; Aunt  Aggie's  contradictions  were  numberless;  but,  on 
broad  lines  it  may  be  said  that  her  assurance  of  the  injustice 
of  her  own  fate  was  balanced  only  by  her  conviction  of  the 
good  luck  of  everyone  else.  She  hoped,  perpetually,  that 


THE  FINEST  THING  83 

they  would  all  recognise  this — namely,  that  their  Life  had 
treated  them  with  the  most  wonderful  good  fortune.  Her 
brother  George  Trenchard,  for  instance,  with  his  careless 
habits,  his  indifference  to  the  facts  of  life,  his  obvious  sel- 
fishness. What  disasters  he  would,  had  he  not  been  incredi- 
bly favoured,  most  surely  have  encountered!  Aunt  Aggie 
was  afraid  that  he  did  not  sufficiently  realise  this,  and  so, 
in  order  that  he  might  offer  up  thanks  to  God,  she  reminded 
him,  as  often  as  was  possible,  of  his  failings.  Thus,  too,  with 
the  others.  Even  Katherine,  for  whom  she  cared  deeply,  be- 
trayed, at  times,  a  haughty  and  uplifted  spirit,  and  fre- 
quently forestalled  her  aunt's  intended  unselfishness,  thus, 
in  a  way,  rebuking  her  aunt,  a  thing  that  a  niece  should 
never  do.  With  this  consciousness  of  her  relations'  failings 
went  an  insatiable  curiosity.  Aunt  Aggie,  because  she  was 
the  finest  character  in  the  family,  should  be  rewarded  by  the 
trust  and  confidence  of  the  family;  she  must,  at  any  rate, 
maintain  the  illusion  that  she  received  it.  Did  they  keep  her 
quiet  with  little  facts  and  stories  that  were  of  no  importance, 
she  must  make  them  important  in  order  to  support  her  dig- 
nity. She  made  them  very  important  indeed.  .  .  . 

A  great  factor  was  her  religion.  She  was,  like  her  sister, 
a  most  sincere  and  devout  member  of  the  Church  of  England. 
She  believed  in  God  as  revealed  to  her  by  relations  and 
clergymen  in  the  day  of  her  baptism;  time  and  a  changing 
world  had  done  nothing  to  shake  her  confidence.  But,  unlike 
her  sisters,  she  believed  that  this  God  existed  chiefly  as  a 
friend  and  supporter  of  Miss  Agnes  Trenchard.  He  had 
other  duties  and  purposes,  of  course,  but  did  not  hide  from 
her  His  especial  interest  in  herself.  The  knowledge  of  this 
gave  her  great  confidence.  She  was  now  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  believed  that  she  was  still  twenty-five;  that  is  not  to 
say  that  she  dressed  as  a  young  woman  or  encouraged,  any 
longer,  the  possibility  of  romantic  affairs.  It  was  simply 
that  the  interest  and  attraction  that  she  offered  to  the  world 
as  a  fine  and  noble  character  were  the  same  as  they  had  ever 


84  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

been — and  if  the  world  did  not  recognize  this  that  was  be- 
cause fine  and  noble  characters  were  few  and  difficult  to  dis- 
cover. One  knew  this  because  the  Trenchard  family  offered 
so  seldom  an  example  of  one,  and  the  Trenchards  were,  of 
course,  the  finest  people  in  England. 

She  had  great  power  with  her  relations  because  she  knew, 
so  intimately,  their  weaknesses.  People,  on  the  whole,  may 
be  said  to  triumph  over  those  who  believe  in  them  and  submit 
to  those  who  don't.  The  Trenchards,  because  life  was  full 
and  time  was  short,  submitted  to  Aunt  Aggie  and  granted 
anything  in  order  that  they  might  not  be  made  uncomfort- 
able. They  could  not,  however,  allow  her  to  abuse  them, 
one  to  another,  and  would  submit  to  much  personal  criticism 
before  they  permitted  treachery.  Their  mutual  affection  was 
a  very  real  factor  in  their  lives.  Aunt  Aggie  herself  had 
her  share  in  it.  She  possessed,  nevertheless,  a  genius  for 
creating  discomfort  or  for  promoting  an  already  unsteady  atr 
mosphere.  She  was  at  her  best  when  the  family  was  at  its 
worst,  because  then  she  could  perceive,  quite  clearly,  her  own 
fine  nobility. 

Philip  Mark  had  made  a  grave  mistake  when  he  disre- 
garded her. 

She  had  disliked  Philip  from  the  first.  She  had  disap- 
proved of  the  way  that  he  had  burst  in  upon  the  family  just 
when  ahe  had  been  at  her  best  in  the  presentation  to  her 
father.  He  had  not  known  that  she  had  been  at  her  best,  but 
then  that  was  his  fault.  She  had  been  ready  to  forgive  this, 
however,  if,  in  the  days  that  followed,  he  had  shown  that  he 
appreciated  her.  He  had  not  shown  this,  at  all — he  had,  in 
fact,  quite  obviously  preferred  her  sister  Elizabeth.  He  had 
not  listened  to  tier  with  close  attention  when  she  had  talked 
to  him  about  the  nobility  of  unselfishness,  and  he  had  dis- 
played both  irritation  and  immorality  in  his  views  of  life. 
She  had  been  shocked  by  the  abruptness  with  which  he  had 
rebuked  Mr.  Seymour,  and  she  thought  his  influence  on 


THE  FINEST  THING  85 

Henry  was,  already,  as  bad  as  it  could  be.  It  was  of  course 
only  too  characteristic  of  George  that  he  should  encourage 
the  young  man.  She  could  see  what  her  father  and  Aunt 
Sarah  thought  of  him,  and  she  could  only  say  that  she  en- 
tirely shared  their  opinion. 

Philip's  visit  had  upset  her,  and  Millie's  return  from  Paris 
upset  her  still  more.  She  had  never  cared  greatly  about 
Millie,  who  had  never  showed  her  any  deference  or  attention, 
but  Millie  had  until  now  always  been  a  Trenchard.  She  had 
come  back  from  Paris  only  half  a  Trenchard.  Aunt  Aggie 
was  grievously  afraid  that  troublesome  times  were  in  store 
for  them  all. 

It  was  just  at  this  point  that  her  attention  was  directed 
towards  Katherine.  She  always  considered  that  Katherine 
knew  her  better  than  any  other  member  of  the  family  did, 
which  simply  meant  that  Katherine  considered  her  feelings. 
Lately,  however,  Katherine  had  not  considered  her  feelings. 
She  had,  on  at  least  two  occasions,  been  deliberately  uncivil  1 
Once  Aunt  Aggie  had  suffered  from  neuralgia,  and  Katherine 
had  promised  to  come  and  read  her  to  sleep  and  had  forgot- 
ten to  do  so.  Next  morning,  her  neuralgia  being  better,  Aunt 
Aggie  said — "I  can't,  dear  Katherine,  imagine  myself,  under 
similar  conditions,  acting  as  you  have  done.  ...  I  had  a 
sleepless  night.  .  .  .  But  of  course  you  had  more  important 
duties" — and  Katherine  had  scarcely  apologised.  On  the  sec- 
ond occasion  Aunt  Aggie  at  breakfast,  (she  was  always  bitter 
at  breakfast,  mildly  unhappy  over  her  porridge  and  violently 
sarcastic  by  marmalade  time)  had  remarked  with  regret  that 
Millie,  who  was  late,  had  "picked  up  these  sad  habits  abroad. 
She  had  never  known  anyone  the  finer,  whether  in  character 
or  manners,  for  living  abroad ;"  here  was  a  little  dust  flung 
at  the  inoffensive  person  of  Philip,  now  soundly  asleep  in 
Jennyn  Street.  At  once  Katherine  was  "in  a  flurry." 
"What  right  had  Aunt  Aggie  to  say  so?  How  could  she 
tell  ?  It  might  be  better  if  one  went  abroad  more,  lost  some 


86  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

of  one's  prejudices  .  .  ."  quite  a  little  scene !  Very  unlike 
Katherine  I 

Aunt  Aggie  did  not  forget.  Like  some  scientist  or  mathe- 
matician, happily  let  loose  into  some  new  theory  or  prob- 
lem, so  now  did  she  consider  Katherine.  Katherine  was  dif- 
ferent, Katherine  was  restless  and  out  of  temper.  She  had 
been  so  ever  since  Philip  Mark's  visit.  .  .  .  With  her  sew- 
ing or  her  book  Aunt  Aggie  sat  in  a  corner  by  the  drawing- 
room  fire  and  watched  and  waited. 

Upon  that  afternoon  that  had  seen  Katherine's  meeting 
with  Philip  by  the  river  Aunt  Aggie  had  been  compelled  to 
have  tea  alone.  That  had  been  annoying,  because  it  looked 
as  though  the  gay  world  was  inviting  everyone  except  Aunt 
Aggie  to  share  in  its  excitements  and  pleasures.  At  last 
there  arrived  Mrs.  Trenchard  and  Millie,  and  finally  Kath- 
erine. Aunt  Aggie  had  sat  in  her  warm  corner,  pursuing 
with  her  needle  the  green  tail  of  an  unnatural  parrot  which 
she  was  working  into  a  slowly-developing  cushion  cover  and 
had  considered  her  grievances.  It  had  been  a  horrible  day, 
cold  and  gloomy.  Aunt  Aggie  had  a  chilblain  that,  like  the 
Waits,  always  appeared  about  Christmas  and,  unlike  them, 
stayed  on  well  into  the  spring.  It  had  made  its  appearance, 
for  the  first  time  this  season,  during  the  past  night.  Millie 
talked  a  great  deal  about  very  little,  and  Mrs.  Trenchard 
received  her  remarks  with  the  nonchalant  indifference  of  a 
croupier  raking  in  the  money  at  Monte  Carlo.  Katherine  sat 
staring  into  the  fire  and  saying  nothing. 

Aunt  Aggie,  watching  her,  felt  quite  suddenly  aa  though 
the  firelight  had  leapt  from  some  crashing  coal  into  a  flaring 
splendour,  that  something  strange  and  unusual  was  with  them 
in  the  room.  She  was  not  at  all,  like  her  sister  Elizabeth, 
given  to  romantic  and  sentimental  impressions.  She  seldom 
read  novels,  and  cared  nothing  for  the  theatra  What  she  felt 
now  was  really  unpleasant  and  uncomfortable,  as  though  she 
had  soap  in  her  eyes  or  dropped  her  collection  under  the  seat 
during  the  Litany.  The  room  positively  glowed,  the  dim 


THE  FINEST  THING  87 

shadows  were  richly  coloured,  and  in  Aunt  Aggie's  heart  was 
alarm  and  agitation. 

She  stared  about  her;  she  looked  about  the  room  and 
pierced  the  shadows ;  she  sewed  a  wrong  stitch  into  the  par- 
rots' tail,  and  then  decided  that  it  was  Katherine's  eyes.  .  .  . 
She  looked  at  the  girl — she  looked  again  and  again — saw  her 
bending  forward  a  little,  her  hands  pressed  together  on  her 
lap,  her  breast  rising  and  falling  with  the  softest  suspicion 
of  some  agitation,  and,  in  her  eyes,  such  a  light  as  could  come 
from  no  fire,  no  flame  from  without,  but  only  from  the  very 
soul  itself.  Katherine's  good-tempered,  humorous  eyes,  so 
charged  with  common-sense,  affectionate  but  always  mild,  un- 
agitated,  calm,  like  her  mother's — now  what  was  one  to  say  ? 

Aunt  Aggie  said  nothing.  Her  own  heart  felt  for  an  in- 
stant some  response.  She  would  have  liked  to  have  taken  the 
girl  into  her  arms  and  kissed  her  and  petted  her.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  impulse  passed.  What  was  the  matter  with  Kath- 
erine?  Who  was  the  matter  with  Katherine?  It  was  al- 
most improper  that  anyone  should  look  like  that  in  a  drawing- 
room  that  had  witnessed  so  much  good  manners.  Moreover 
it  was  selfish,  this  terrible  absorption.  If  Katherine  began 
to  think  of  herself,  whatever  would  happen  to  them  all !  And 
there  were  Millie  and  her  mother,  poor  things,  chattering 
blindly  together.  Aunt  Aggie  felt  that  the  business  of  watch- 
ing over  this  helpless  family  did  indeed  devolve  upon  her. 
From  that  moment  Katherine  and  the  things  that  were  pos- 
sibly happening  to  Katherine  never  left  her  thoughts.  She 
was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many  months. 

But  Katherine,  in  the  days  that  followed,  gave  her  curi- 
osity no  satisfaction.  Aunt  Aggie  dated,  in  future  years, 
all  the  agitation  that  was  so  shortly  to  sweep  down  upon 
the  Trenchard  waters  from  that  afternoon  when  'Kather- 
ine's eyes  had  seemed  so  strange',  but  her  insistence  on  that 
date  did  not  at  all  mean  that  it  was  then  that  Katherine  in- 
vited her  aunt's  confidence,  Aunt  Aggie  was  compelled  to 
drive  on  her  mysterious  way  alone.  She  was  now  assured 


88  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

that  'something  was  the  matter',  but  the  time  had  not  yet 
arrived  when  all  the  family  was  concerned  in  it. 

In  any  case,  to  begin  with,  what  was  her  sister-in-law 
Harriet  Trenchard  thinking?  No  one  ever  knew  what 
Harriet  Trenchard  thought;  and  foolish  and  hasty  observers 
said  that  that  was  because  Harriet  Trenchard  never  thought 
at  all.  Aggie  Trenchard  was  neither  foolish  nor  hasty; 
she  was  afraid  of  Harriet  because,  after  all  these  years,  she 
knew  nothing  about  her.  She  had  never  penetrated  that 
indifferent  stolidity.  Harriet  had  never  spoken  to  her  in- 
timately about  anything,  nor  had  Harriet  once  displayed 
any  emotions,  whether  of  surprise  or  anger,  happiness  or 
grief,  but  Aggie  was  penetrating  enough  to  fear  that  brood- 
ing quiet. 

At  least  Aggie  knew  her  sister-in-law  well  enough  to 
realise  that  her  children  were  an  ever-present,  ever-passionate 
element  in  her  life.  On  certain  occasions,  concerning  Millie, 
Katherine,  Henry  or  Vincent,  Aggie  had  seen  that  silence, 
for  a  moment,  quiver  as  a  still  lake  trembles  with  a  sudden 
shake  or  roll  when  the  storm  is  raging  across  the  hills — espe- 
cially was  Katherine  linked  to  her  mother's  most  intimate 
hold  upon  life,  even  though  the  words  that  they  exchanged 
were  of  the  most  commonplace ;  Aunt  Aggie  knew  that,  and 
strangely,  obscurely,  she  was  moved,  at  times,  to  sudden  im- 
pulses of  bitter  jealousy.  Why  was  it  that  no  one  cared  for 
her  as  Katherine  cared  for  her  mother?  What  was  there 
in  Harriet  to  care  for?  .  .  .  and  yet — nevertheless,  Aggie 
Trenchard  loved  her  sister-in-law.  With  regard  to  this 
present  business  Aggie  knew,  with  sufficient  assurance,  that 
Harriet  disliked  Philip  Mark,  had  disliked  him  from  the 
first.  Had  Harriet  noticed  this  change  in  her  daughter, 
and  had  she  drawn  her  conclusions?  What  would  Harriet 
say  if  .  .  .  ?  Aunt  Aggie  added  stitches  to  the  green  par- 
rot's tail  with  every  comfortable  assurance  that  'in  a  time 
or  two',  there  would  be  plenty  of  trouble. 

Ultimately,  through  it  all,  it  was  her  jealousy  that  moved 


THE  FINEST  THING  89 

her  and  her  jealousy  that  provoked  the  first  outburst  .  .  . 
instantly,  without  warning,  new  impulses,  new  relationships, 
new  motives  were  working  amongst  them  all,  and  their  world 
was  changed. 

Upon  an  afternoon,  Aunt  Aggie  hearing  that  Henry 
wished  to  change  a  novel  at  Mudie's  Library  (that  very 
novel  that  he  had  been  reading  on  the  day  of  Philip's  ar- 
rival) offered  to  take  it  for  him.  This  was  at  luncheon,  and 
she  felt,  because  she  liked  her  food  and  barley-water,  a  sud- 
den impulse  towards  the  Ideal  Unselfishness.  She  made 
her  offer,  and  then  reflected  that  it  would  be  very  trouble- 
some to  go  so  far  as  Oxford  Street;  she  therefore  allowed 
Katherine  to  accept  the  mission,  retaining  at  the  same  time 
her  own  nobility.  She  became  quite  angry:  "Of  course," 
she  said,  "you  consider  me  too  old  to  do  anything — to  sit 
in  a  corner  and  sew  is  all  I'm  good  for — well,  well — you'll 
be  old  yourself  one  day,  Katherine,  my  dear.  I  should 
have  liked  to  have  helped  Henry.  .  .  .  However  .  .  ." 

She  was  conscious,  during  the  afternoon,  of  some  injus- 
tice; she  had  been  treated  badly.  At  dinner  that  night 
Rocket  forgot  the  footstool  that  was  essential  to  her  com- 
fort ;  she  was  compelled  at  last  to  ask  him  for  it.  He  had 
never  forgotten  it  before ;  they  all  thought  her  an  old  woman 
who  didn't  matter ;  no  one  troubled  now  about  her — well,  they 
should  see.  .  .  . 

Great  Aunt  Sarah  was,  as  often  happened  to  her,  rheu- 
matic but  Spartan  in  bed.  The  ladies,  when  they  left  the 
dining-room  and  closed  around  the  drawing-room  fire,  were 
Mrs.  Trenchard,  Aunt  Aggie,  Aunt  Betty,  Katherine  and 
Millie.  Happy  and  comfortable  enough  they  looked,  with 
the  shadowed  dusky  room  behind  them  and  the  blaze  in 
front  of  them.  In  the  world  outside  it  was  a  night  of  in- 
tense frost:  here  they  were  reflected  in  the  Mirror,  Mrs. 
Trenchard's  large  gold  locket  (Henry  as  a  baby  inside  it), 
Aggie's  plump  neck  and  black  silk  dress,  Aunt  Betty's  dart- 
ing, sparkling  eyes,  Millie's  lovely  shoulders,  Katherine's 


90  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

rather  dumpy  ones — there  they  all  were,  right  inside  the 
Mirror,  with  a  reflected  fire  to  make  them  cosy  and  the 
walls  ever  so  thick  and  old.  The  freezing  night  could  not 
touch  them. 

"Rocket's  getting  very  old  and  careless,"  said  Aggie. 

Everyone  had  known  that  Aunt  Aggie  was  out  of  temper 
this  evening,  and  everyone,  therefore,  was  prepared  for  a 
tiresome  hour  or  two.  Rocket  was  a  great  favourite;  Mrs. 
Trenchard,  her  arms  folded  across  her  bosom,  her  face  the 
picture  of  placid  content,  said : 

"Oh,  Aggie,  do  you  think  so  ?  ...  I  don't." 

"No,  of  couse,  you  don't,  Harriet,"  answered  her  sister 
sharply.  "He  takes  care  with  you.  Of  course  he  does.  But 
if  you  considered  your  sister  sometimes — " 

"My  dear  Aggie!"  Mrs.  Trenchard,  as  'she  spoke,  bent 
forward  and  very  quietly  picked  up  a  bright  green  silk 
thread  from  the  carpet. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  complaining!  That's  a  thing  I  don't  be- 
lieve in!  After  all,  if  you  think  Rocket's  perfection  I've 
no  more  to  say.  I  want  others  to  be  comfortable — for  my- 
self I  care  nothing.  It  is  for  the  rest  of  the  family." 

"We're  quite  comfortable,  Aunt  Aggie,  thank  you,"  said 
Millie  laughing. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think,  Harriet,"  said  Aggie,  disregard- 
ing her  niece,  "that  I'm  complaining — I — 

Mrs.  Trenchard  leant  towards  her,  holding  out  the  thread 
of  green  silk! 

"That  must  be  from  your  silks,  Aggie  dear,"  she  said. 
"It's  just  the  colour  of  your  parrot's  tail.  I  couldn't  think 
what  it  was,  lying  there  on  the  carpet." 

It  was  then  that  Katherine,  who  had  paid  no  attention 
to  this  little  conversation  but  had  followed  her  own  thoughts, 
said: 

"Oh!  how  careless  of  me!  I  never  took  Henry's  book, 
after  all — and  I  went  right  up  Oxford  Street  too!" 

This  was  unfortunate,  because  it  reminded  Aunt  Aggie  of 


THE  FINEST  THING  91 

something  that  she  had  very  nearly  forgotten.  Of  course 
Katherine  had  never  intended  to  take  the  book — she  had 
simply  offered  to  do  so  because  she  thought  her  Aunt  old, 
feeble,  and  incapable. 

"Really,  Katherine,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "you  might  have 
let  me  take  it  after  all.  I  may  be  useless  in  most  ways  and 
not  worth  anyone's  consideration,  but  at  least  I'm  still  able 
to  walk  up  Oxford  Street  in  safety!" 

Her  aunt's  tones  were  so  bitter  that  Katherine  looked 
across  at  her  in  some  dismay. 

Aunt  Betty  did  not  assist  the  affair  by  saying: 

"Why,  Aggie  dear,  who  ever  supposed  you  couldn't; 
I'm  sure  you  can  do  anything  you  want  to!" 

"Well,  perhaps,  next  time,"  Aunt  Aggie  said  sharply. 
"When  I  offer  some  help  someone  will  listen  to  me.  I 
should  not  have  forgotten  the  book." 

"I  cant  think  why  I  did,"  said  Katherine,  "I  remembered 
it  just  before  I  started,  and  then  something  happened — 

Aunt  Aggie  looked  about  her,  and  thought  that  this  would 
be  a  very  good  opportunity  for  discovering  the  real  state  of 
Katherine's  mind. 

"You  must  take  care,  Katherine  dear,"  she  said,  "you 
don't  seem  to  me  to  have  been  quite  yourself  lately.  I've 
noticed  a  number  of  little  things.  You're  tired,  I  think." 

Katherine  laughed.  "Why  should  I  be  ?  I've  had  nothing 
to  make  me." 

It  was  then  that  Aunt  Aggie  caught  a  look  of  strange, 
almost  furtive  anxiety  in  Harriet's  eyes.  Following  this, 
for  the  swiftest  moment,  Katherine  and  her  mother  ex- 
changed a  gleam  of  affection,  of  reassurance,  of  confidence. 

"Ah!"  thought  Aunt  Aggie,  "they're  laughing  at  me. 
Everyone's  laughing  at  me." 

"My  dear  Katherine,"  she  snapped,  "I'm  sure  /  don't 
know  what's  tired  you,  but  I  think  you  must  realise  what 
I  mean.  You  are  not  your  normal  self;  and,  if  your  old 
aunt  may  say  so,  that's  a  pity." 


92  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Millie,  looking  across  at  her  sister,  was  astonished  to  see 
the  colour  rising  in  her  cheeks.  Katherine  was  annoyed! 
Katherine  minded  Aunt  Aggie!  Katherine,  who  was  never 
out  of  temper — never  perturbed!  and  at  Aunt  Aggie! 

"Really,  Aunt  Aggie,"  Katherine  said,  "it's  very  tiresome 
if  all  the  family  are  going  to  watch  one  day  and  night  as 
though  one  were  something  from  the  Zoo.  Tiresome  is  not 
nearly  strong  enough." 

Her  aunt  smiled  bitterly. 

"It's  only  my  affection  for  you,"  she  said.  "But  of  course 
you  don't  want  that.  Why  should  you  ?  One  day,  however, 
you  may  remember  that  someone  once  cared  whether  you 
were  tired  or  not." 

Aunt  Aggie's  hands  trembled  on  her  lap. 

Katherine  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"I'm  very  grateful  for  your  kindness — but  I'd  much 
rather  be  left  alone.  I'm  not  tired,  nor  odd,  nor  anything 
— so,  please,  don't  tell  me  that  I  am." 

Aggie  rose  from  her  chair,  and  very  slowly  with  trembling 
fingers  drew  her  work  together.  "I  think,"  she  said,  her 
voice  quivering  a  little,  "that  I'll  go  to  bed.  Next  time  you 
wish  to  insult  me,  Katherine,  I'd  rather  you  did  it  when 
we  were  alone." 

A  very  slow  and  stately  figure,  she  walked  down  the  draw- 
ing-room and  disappeared. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Oh,  dear !"  cried  Katherine,  "I'm  so  sorry !"  She  looked 
round  upon  them  all,  and  saw  quite  clearly  that  they  were 
surprised  at  her.  Again  behind  Mrs.  Trenchard's  eyes 
there  hovered  that  suspicion  of  anxiety. 

"What  did  I  do?  What  did  I  say?  Aunt  Aggie's  so 
funny."  Then,  as  still  they  did  not  answer,  she  turned 
round  upon  them :  "Have  I  been  cross  and  tiresome  lately  ? 
Have  you  all  noticed  it  ?  Tell  me." 

Aunt  Betty  said,  "No,  dear,  of  course  not." 

Millie  said,  "What  does  it  matter  what  Aunt  Aggie  says  ?" 


THE  FINEST  THING  93 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said,  "There's  another  of  Aggie's  green 
threads.  Under  your  chair,  Millie  dear.  I'd  better  go  up 
and  see  whether  she  wants  anything." 

But  Katherine  rose  and,  standing  for  an  instant  with  a 
little  half-smile,  half -frown,  surveying  them,  moved  then 
slowly  away  from  them  down  the  room. 

"N"o.  I'll  go,  Mother,  and  apologise.  I  suppose  I  was 
horrid."  She  left  them. 

She  went  up  through  the  dark  passages  slowly,  medita- 
tively. She  waited  for  a  moment  outside  her  aunt's  door 
and  then  knocked,  heard  then  her  aunt's  voice,  "Come  in!" 
— in  tones  that  showed  that  she  had  been  expecting  some 
ambassador. 

Katherine  stood  by  the  door,  then  moved  forward,  put 
her  arms  about  Aunt  Aggie  and  kissed  her. 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I'm  afraid  that  I  hurt  you.  You  know 
that  I  didn't  mean  to." 

Upon  Aunt  Aggie's  dried  cheeks  there  hovered  a  tiny 
cold  and  glassy  tear.  She  drew  back  from  Katherine's  em- 
brace, then  with  a  strange,  almost  feverish  movement  caught 
Katherine's  hand. 

"It  wasn't,  my  dear,  that  you  hurt  me.  I  expect  I'm  too 
sensitive — that  has  always  been,  my  misfortune.  But  I 
felt"  (another  glassy  tear  now  upon  the  other  cheek)  "that 
you  and  Millie  are  finding  me  tiresome  now." 

"Aunt  Aggie!    Of  course  noil" 

"I  wish  to  be  of  some  use — it  is  my  continual  prayer — 
some  use  to  someone — and  you  make  me  feel — but  of  course 
you  are  young  and  impatient — that  I'd  be  better  perhaps 
out  of  the  way." 

Katherine  answered  her  very  gravely:  "If  I've  ever 
made  you  feel  that  for  a  moment,  Aunt  Aggie,  there's  noth- 
ing too  bad  for  me.  But  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
Aren't  you  a  little  unjust?" 

The  two  tears  had  disappeared. 

"I  daresay  I  am,  my  dear,  I  daresay  I  am — or  seem  so 


94  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

to  you.  Old  people  often  do  to  young  ones.  But  I'm  not 
unjust,  I  think,  in  fancying  that  you  yourself  have  changed 
lately.  I  made  you  angry  when  I  said  that  just  now,  but 
I  felt  it  my  duty—" 

Katherine  was  silent.  Aunt  Aggie  watched  her  with 
bright,  inquisitive  eyes,  from  which  tears  were  now  very 
far  away. 

"Well,  we  won't  say  any  more,  dear.  My  fault  is,  per- 
haps, that  I  am  too  anxious  to  do  things  for  others,  and  so 
may  seem  to  you  young  ones  interfering.  I  don't  know, 
I'm  sure.  It  has  always  been  my  way.  I'm  glad  indeed 
when  you  tell  me  that  nothing  is  the  matter.  To  my  old 
eyes  it  seems  that  ever  since  Mr.  Mark  stayed  here  the  house 
has  not  been  the  same.  You  have  not  been  the  same." 

"Mr.  Mark?"  Katherine's  voice  was  sharp,  then  sud- 
denly dropped  and,  after  an  instant's  silence,  was  soft, 
"You've  got  .Mr.  Mark  on  the  brain,  Aunt  Aggie." 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  didn't  like  him.  I'm  sure  he  was  very 
bad  for  Henry.  But  then  I'm  old-fashioned,  I  suppose.  Mr. 
Mark  shocked  me,  I  confess.  Russia  must  be  a  very  wild 
country." 

Then,  for  a  space,  they  looked  at  one  another.  Katherine 
said  nothing,  only,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  breath  coming 
sharply,  stared  into  the  mirror  on  the  dressing-table.  Aunt 
Aggie  faced  in  this  silence  something  alarming  and  uneasy ; 
it  was  as  though  they  were,  both  of  them,  listening  for  some 
sound,  but  the  house  was  very  still. 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  bed,  my  dear.  Kiss  me,  Katherine. 
Don't  forget  that  I'm  older  than  you,  dear.  I  know  some- 
thing of  the  world — yes  .  .  .  good-night,  my  dear." 

They  embraced;  Katherine  left  the  room.  Her  cheeks 
were  flaming ;  her  body  seemed  wrapt  in  dry,  scorching  heat. 
She  hurried,  her  heart  beating  so  loudly  that  it  seemed  to 
her  to  fill  the  passage  with  sound,  into  her  own  room. 

She  did  not  switch  on  the  electric-light,  but  stood  there 
in  the  darkness,  the  room  very  cool  and  half -shadowed ;  some 


THE  FINEST  THING  96 

reflected  outside  light  made  a  pool  of  grey  twilight  upon  the 
floor,  and  just  above  this  pool  Katherine  stood,  quite  mo- 
tionless, her  head  raised,  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together. 
She  knew.  That  moment  in  her  aunt's  room  had  told  her! 
She  was  lifted,  by  one  instant  of  glorious  revelation,  out 
of  herself,  her  body,  her  life,  and  caught  up  into  her  divine 
heaven,  could  look  down  upon  that  other  arid,  mordant  world 
with  eyes  of  incredulous  happiness. 

She  loved  Philip  Mark.  She  had  always  loved  him.  She 
had  never  loved  anyone  before.  She  had  thought  that  life 
was  enough  with  its  duties,  its  friendships,  its  .little  pleasures 
and  little  sorrows.  She  had  never  lived;  she  was  born  now 
here  in  the  still  security  of  her  room.  .  .  .  The  clocks  were 
striking  ten,  the  light  on  the  carpet  quivered,  dimly  she 
could  see  her  books,  her  bed,  her  furniture.  Some  voice, 
very  far  away,  called  her  name,  waited  and  then  called  again 
— called  the  old  Katherine,  who  was  dead  now  .  .  .  dead 
and  gone  .  .  .  buried  in  Aunt  Aggie's  room.  The  new 
Katherine  had  powers,  demands,  values,  insistences,  of  which 
the  old  Katherine  had  never  dreamed. 

Katherine,  at  this  instant,  asked  herself  no  questions — 
whether  he  loved  her,  what  the  family  would  say,  how  she 
herself  would  face  a  new  world,  why  it  was  that,  through 
all  these  weeks,  she  had  not  known  that  she  loved  him  ?  She 
asked  herself  nothing.  .  .  .  Only  waited,  motionless,  staring 
in  front  of  her. 

Then  suddenly  her  heart  was  so  weighed  down  with  happi- 
ness that  she  was  utterly  weary;  her  knees  trembled,  her 
hands  wavered  as  though  seeking  some  support.  She  turned, 
fell  down  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  her  face  sank  deep 
in  her  hands  and  so  remained,  thinking  of  nothing,  conscious 
of  nothing,  her  spirit  bathed  in  an  intensity  of  overwhelm- 
ing joy- 
She  recovered,  instantly  in  the  days  that  followed,  her 
natural  sweetness ;  she  was,  as  all  the  household,  with  relief, 
discovered,  the  real  Katherine  again.  She  did  not  to  her- 


96  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

self  seem  to  have  any  existence  at  all.  The  days  in  this  early 
December  were  days  of  frost,  red  skies,  smoking  leaves,  and 
hovering  silver  mists  that  clouded  the  chimneys,  made  the 
sun  a  remotely  yellow  ball,  shot  sunset  and  sunrise  with  all 
rainbow  colours. 

Beautiful  days — she  passed  through  them  with  no  con- 
sciousness of  herself,  her  friends,  not  even  of  Philip.  No 
thought  of  anything  was  possible,  only  that  breathless,  burn- 
ing, heart-beat,  the  thickness  of  the  throat,  the  strange  heat 
and  then  sudden  cold  about  her  face,  the  vision  of  everyone 
near  her  as  ghosts  who  moved  many,  many  worlds  away. 
Her  daily  duties  were  performed  by  someone  else — some 
kindly,  considerate,  sensible  person,  who  saw  that  she  was 
disturbed  and  preoccupied.  She  watched  this  kind  person, 
and  wondered  how  it  was  that  the  people  about  her  did  not 
notice  this.  At  night  for  many  hours  she  lay  there,  thinking 
of  nothing,  feeling  the  beating  of  her  heart,  wrapped  in  a 
glorious  ecstasy  of  content,  then  suddenly  soothed  as  though 
by  some  anaesthetic  she  would  sleep,  dumbly,  dreamlessly, 
heavily. 

For  a  week  this  continued — then  Philip  came  to  dinner, 
scarcely  a  dinner-party,  although  it  had  solemnity.  The  only 
invited  guests  were  Philip,  Rachel  Seddon,  her  fat  uncle, 
Lord  John  Beaminster,  and  an  ancient  Trenchard  cousin. 
Lord  John  was  fat,  shining,  and  happy.  Having  survived 
with  much  complacency  the  death  of  his  mother,  the  Duchess 
of  Wrexe,  and  the  end  of  the  Beaminster  grandeur,  he  led 
a  happy  bachelor  existence  in  a  little  house  behind  Shepherds 
Market.  He  was  the  perfect  symbol  of  good  temper,  good 
food,  and  a  good  conscience.  Deeply  attached  to  his  niece, 
Rachel,  he  had,  otherwise,  many  friends,  many  interests, 
many  happinesses,  all  of  a  small  bird-like  amiable  character. 
He  bubbled  with  relief  because  he  was  not  compelled,  any 
longer,  to  sustain  the  Beaminster  character.  He  had  beauti- 
ful white  hair,  rosy  cheeks,  and  perfect  clothes.  He  often 
dined  at  the  Trenchard's  house  with  Rachel — he  called  him- 


THE  FINEST  THING  97 

self  'Roddy's  Apology.'  The  Trenchards  liked  him  be- 
cause he  thought  very  highly  of  the  Trenchards. 

He  sat  beside  Katherine  at  dinner  and  chattered  to  her. 
Philip  sat  on  her  side  of  the  table,  and  she  could  not  see 
him,  but  when  he  had  entered  the  drawing-room  earlier  in 
the  evening  the  sudden  sight  of  him  had  torn  aside,  us  though 
with  a  fierce,  almost  revengeful  gesture,  all  the  mists,  the 
unrealities,  the  glories  that  had,  during  the  last  weeks,  sur- 
rounded her.  She  saw  him  and  instantly,  as  though  with 
a  fall  into  icy  water,  was  plunged  into  her  old  world  r.gain. 
He  looked  at  her,  she  thought,  as  he  would  look  at  a  stranger. 
He  did  not  care  for  her — he  had  not  even  thought  about  her. 
Why  had  she  been  so  confident  during  all  these  strange  days  ? 
Her  one  longing  now  was  to  avoid  him.  With  a  great  effort 
she  drove  her  common-sense  to  her  service,  talked  to  him  for 
a  moment  or  two  with  her  customary  quiet,  half-humorous 
placidity,  and  went  into  dinner.  She  heard  his  voice  now 
and  then.  He  was  getting  on  well  with  Rachel.  They  would 
become  great  friends.  Katherine  was  glad.  Dinner  was 
interminable;  Lord  John  babbled  and  babbled  and  babbled. 
Dinner  was  over.  The  ladies  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I  like  your  friend,  Katie,"  said  Rachel.  "He's  inter- 
esting." 

"I'm  glad  you  do,"  said  Katherine. 

The  men  joined  them.  Philip  was  conveyed  by  Mrs. 
Trenchard  to  the  ancient  Trenchard  cousin,  who  had  a  bony 
face  and  an  eager,  unsatisfied  eye.  Philip  devoted  himself 
to  these. 

Katherine  sat  and  talked  to  anyone.  She  was  so  miserable 
that  she  felt  that  she  had  never  known  before  what  to  be 
miserable  was.  Then,  when  she  was  wondering  whether  the 
evening  would  ever  end,  she  looked  up,  across  the  room. 
Philip,  from  his  corner,  also  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met 
and,  at  that  moment,  the  fire,  hitherto  decorously  confined 
behind  its  decent  bounds,  ran  golden,  brilliant  about  the 
room,  up  to  the  ceiling,  crackling,  flaming.  The  people  in 


98  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

the  room  faded,  disappeared;  there  was  no  furniture  there, 
the  bookcases,  the  chairs,  the  tables  were  gone,  the  mirror, 
blazing  with  light,  burning  with  some  strange  heat,  shone 
down  upon  chaos.  Only,  through  it  all,  Katherine  and 
Philip  were  standing,  their  eyes  shining,  for  all  to  see,  and 
Heaven,  let  loose  upon  a  dead,  dusty  world,  poured  reck- 
lessly its  glories  upon  them. 

"I  was  saying,"  said  Lord  John,  "that  it's  these  young 
fellows  who  think  they  can  shoot  and  can't  who  are  doin' 
all  the  harm." 

Slowly,  very  slowly  Katherine's  soul  retreated  within  its 
fortresses  again.  Slowly  the  fires  faded,  Heaven  was  with- 
drawn. For  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes,  then,  once  more, 
she  regarded  Lord  John.  "Oh,  God!  I'm  so  happy!"  some- 
thing within  her  was  saying,  "I  shall  be  absurd  and  im- 
possible in  a  moment  if  I  can't  do  something  with  my  happi- 
ness!" 

She  was  saved  by  the  ancient  cousin's  deciding  that  it 
was  late.  She  always  ended  an  evening  party  by  declaring 
that  it  was  later  than  she  could  ever  have  supposed.  She 
was  followed  by  Rachel,  Lord  John  and  Philip. 

When  Philip  and  Katherine  said  good-bye  their  hands 
scarcely  touched,  but  they  were  burning. 

"I  will  come  to-morrow  afternoon,"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back  to  him. 

Through  the  history  of  that  old  Westminster  house  there 
ran  the  thread  of  many  of  such  moments,  now  it  could  not 
be  surprised  nor  even  so  greatly  stirred,  whispering  through 
its  passages  and  corridors.  "Here  it  is  again.  .  „  .  Pleasant 
enough  for  the  time.  I  wish  them  luck,  poor  dears,  but  I've 
never  known  it  answer.  This  new  breath,  out  through  my 
rafters,  up  through  my  floors,  down  my  chimneys,  in  at  my 
windows — just  the  same  as  it  used  to  be.  Very  pleasant 
while  it  lasts — poor  young  things." 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  House,  long  practised  in  the 


THE  FINEST  THING  99 

affairs  of  men,  should  perceive  these  movements  in  advance 
of  the  Trenchard  family.  As  to  warning  the  Trenchards, 
that  was  not  the  House's  business.  It  was  certainly  owing 
to  no  especial  virtue  of  perception  that  Aunt  Aggie  decided 
that  she  would  spend  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  the 
dinner-party  in  the  drawing-room. 

This  decision  was  owing  to  the  physical  fact  that  she 
fancied  that  she  had  a  slight  cold,  and  the  spiritual  one 
that  her  sister  Harriet  had  said :  would  she  mind  being  most 
unselfish :  would  she  stay  in  and  receive  callers  as  she,  Har- 
riet, was  compelled  to  attend  an  unfortunate  Committee? 
There  was  nothing  that  Aunt  Aggie  could  have  preferred 
to  sitting  close  to  the  drawing-room  fire,  eating  muffin  if 
alone,  and  being  gracious  were  there  company.  However, 
Harriet  had  said  that  it  would  be  unselfish — therefore  un- 
selfish it  was. 

Katherine,  it  appeared,  also  intended  to  stay  at  home. 

"You  needn't,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "I  promised 
your  mother.  I  had  rather  looked  forward  to  going  to  the 
Misset-Faunders',  but  never  mind — I  promised  your 
mother." 

"I'm  sure  it's  better  for  your  cold  that  you  shouldn't  go 
out,"  said  Katherine.  "/  think  you  ought  to  be  upstairs — 
in  bed  with  a  hot  bottle." 

"My  cold's  nothing" — Aunt  Aggie's  voice  was  sharp. 
"Certainly  the  Misset-Faunders  wouldn't  have  hurt  it.  I 
could  have  gone  in  a  cab.  But  I  promised  your  mother. 
.  .  .  It's  a  pity.  They  always  have  music  on  their  second 
Fridays.  Alice  plays  the  violin  very  well  .  .  .  and  I  dare 
say,  after  all,  no  one  will  come  this  afternoon.  You  really 
needn't  bother  to  stay  in,  Katherine." 

"I  think  I  will  to-day,"  said  Katherine  quietly. 

So  aunt  and  niece  sat,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fire,  wait- 
ing. Katherine  was  very  quiet,  and  Aunt  Aggie,  who,  like 
all  self-centred  people,  wat;  alarmed  by  silence,  spun  a  little 
web  of  chatter  round  and  round  the  room. 


100  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"It  was  all  quite  pleasant  last  night  I  thought;  I  must 
say  Lord  John  can  make  himself  very  agreeable  if  he  pleases. 
How  did  you  think  Rachel  was  looking?  I  wanted  to  ask 
her  about  Michael,  who  had  a  nasty  little  cold  last  week, 
but  Mr.  Mark  quite  absorbed  her — talking  about  his  Russia, 
I  suppose.  I  don't  suppose  anyone  will  come  this  afternoon. 
The  very  last  thing  Clare  Faunder  said  on  Sunday  was 
'Mind  you  come  on  Friday.  We've  some  special  music  on 
Friday,  and  I  know  how  you  love  it.'  But  of  course  one  must 
help  your  mother  when  one  can.  Your  Aunt  Betty  would 
take  one  of  her  walks.  Walking  in  London  seems  to  me 
such  an  odd  thing  to  do.  If  everyone  walked  what  would 
the  poor  cabmen  and  busses  do  ?  One  must  think  of  others, 
especially  with  the  cold  weather  coming  on." 

Her  voice  paused  and  then  dropped;  she  looked  sharply 
across  at  Katherine,  and  realized  that  the  girl  had  not  been 
listening.  She  was  staring  up  into  the  Mirror;  in  her  eyes 
was  the  look  of  burning,  dreaming  expectation  that  had  on 
that  other  afternoon  been  so  alarming. 

At  that  moment  Rocket  opened  the  door  and  announced 
Philip  Mark. 

Katherine's  eyes  met  Philip's  for  an  instant,  then  they 
travelled  to  Aunt  Aggie.  That  lady  rose  with  the  little 
tremor  of  half-nervous,  half-gratified  greeting  that  she  al- 
ways bestowed  on  a  guest.  She  disliked  Mr.  Mark  cordially, 
but  that  was  no  reason  why  the  memory  of  an  hour  or  two 
filled  with  close  attention  from  a  young  man  should  not 
brighten  to-morrow's  reminiscences.  She  was  conscious  also 
that  she  was  keeping  guard  over  Katherine.  Not  for  an 
instant  would  she  leave  that  room  until  Mr.  Mark  had  also 
left  it.  She  looked  at  the  two  young  people,  Katherine 
flushed  with  the  fire,  Philip  flushed  with  the  frosty  day, 
and  regarded  with  satisfaction  their  distance  one  from  the 
other.  Tea  was  brought ;  life  was  very  civilised ;  the  doors 
were  all  tightly  closed. 

Philip  had  come  with  the  determined  resolve  of  asking 


THE  FINEST  THING  101 

Katherine  to  marry  him.  Last  night  he  had  not  slept.  With 
a  glorious  Katherine  at  his  side  he  had  paced  his  room,  his 
soul  in  the  stars,  his  body  somewhere  underground.  All  day 
he  had  waited  for  a  decent  hour  to  arrive.  He  had  almost 
run  to  the  house.  Now  he  was  faced  by  Aunt  Aggie.  As 
he  smiled  at  her  he  could  have  taken  her  little  body,  her 
bundle  of  clothes,  her  dried  little  soul,  crunched  it  to  nothing 
in  his  hands  and  flung  it  into  the  fire. 

Although  he  gave  no  sign  of  outward  dismay,  he  was  rag- 
ing with  impatience.  He  would  not  look  at  Katherine  lest, 
borne  upon  some  wave  of  passion  stronger  than  he,  he  should 
have  rushed  across  the  room,  caught  her  to  his  side,  and  so 
defied  all  the  Trenchard  decencies;  he  knew  that  it  was 
wiser,  at  present,  to  preserve  them. 

They  talked  about  Rachel  Seddon,  Dinner-parties,  Cold 
Weather,  Dancing,  Exercise,  growing  Stout,  Biscuits,  the  best 
Church  in  London,  Choirs,  Committees,  Aunt  Aggie's  duties, 
growing  Thin,  Sleeplessness,  Aunt  Aggie's  trials,  Chilblains, 
Cold  Weather.  ...  At  this  renewed  appearance  of  the 
weather  Philip  noticed  an  old  calf-bound  book  lying  upon 
a  little  table  at  his  side.  Behind  his  eyes  there  flashed  the 
discovery  of  an  idea. 

"Pride  and  Prejudice,"  he  said. 

"Oh !"  cried  Katherine.  "That's  one  of  Father's  precious 
Jane  Austen's — a  first  edition.  He  keeps  them  all  locked 
up  in  his  study.  Henry  must  have  borrowed  that  one. 
They're  never  allowed  to  lie  about." 

Philip  picked  it  up.  From  between  the  old  leaves,  brown 
a  little  now,  with  the  black  print  sunk  deep  into  their  very 
heart,  there  stole  a  scent  of  old  age,  old  leather,  old  tobacco, 
old  fun  and  wisdom. 

Philip  had  opened  it  where  Mr.  Collins,  proposing  to 
Elizabeth  Bennet,  declines  to  accept  her  refusal. 

"I  am  not  now  to  learn,"  replied  Mr.  Collins,  with  a 
formal  wave  of  the  hand,  "that  it  is  usual  with  young  ladies 
to  reject  the  addresses  of  the  man  whom  they  secretly  mean 


102  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

to  accept,  when  he  first  applies  for  their  favour;  and  that 
sometimes  the  refusal  is  repeated  a  second,  or  even  a  third 
time.  I  am,  therefore,  by  no  means  discouraged  by  what 
you  have  just  said,  and  shall  hope  to  lead  you  to  the  altar 
ere  long." 

"Upon  my  word,  sir,"  cried  Elizabeth,  "your  hope  is 
rather  an  extraordinary  one  after  my  declaration.  I  do 
assure  you  that  I  am  not  one  of  those  young  ladies  (if  such 
young  ladies  there  are)  who  are  so  daring  as  to  risk  their 
happiness  on  the  chance  of  being  asked  a  second  time.  I  am 
perfectly  serious  in  my  refusal.  You  could  not  make  me 
happy,  and  I  am  convinced  that  I  am  the  last  woman  in  the 
world  who  would  make  you  so.  Nay,  were  your  friend  Lady 
Catherine  to  know  me,  I  am  persuaded  she  would  find  me 
in  every  respect  ill-qualified  for  the  situation." 

"Were  it  certain  that  Lady  Catherine  would  think  so," 
said  Mr.  Collins  very  gravely — "but  I  cannot  imagine  that 
her  ladyship  would  at  all  disapprove  of  you.  And  you  may 
be  certain  that  when  I  have  the  honour  of  seeing  her  again, 
I  shall  speak  in  the  highest  terms  of  your  modesty,  economy, 
and  other  amiable  qualifications." 

"  'Pride  and  Prejudice,'  I  always  thought,"  said  Aunt 
Aggie  with  amiable  approval,  "a  very  pretty  little  tale.  It's 
many  years  since  I  read  it.  Father  read  it  aloud  to  us,  I 
remember,  when  we  were  girls." 

Philip  turned  a  little  from  her,  as  though  he  would  have 
the  light  more  directly  over  his  shoulder.  He  had  taken 
a  piece  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  in  an  instant  he  had 
written  in  pencil: 

"I  love  you.    Will  you  marry  me?    Philip." 

This  he  slipped  between  the  pages. 

He  knew  that  Katherine  had  watched  him;  very  gravely 
he  passed  the  book  across  to  her,  then  he  turned  to  Aunt 
Aggie,  and  with  a  composure  that  surprised  himself,  paid 
her  a  little  of  the  deference  that  she  needed. 

Katherine,   with  hands  that  trembled,   had  opened   the 


THE  FINEST  THING  103 

book.  She  found  the  piece  of  paper,  saw  the  words,  and 
then,  in  a  sort  of  dreaming  bewilderment,  read  to  the  bottom 
of  the  old  printed  page. 

"Mr.  Collins  thus  addressed  her: 

"When  I  do  myself  the  honour  of  speaking  to  you  next  on 
this  subject,  I  shall  hope  to  receive  a  more  favourable  answer 
than  you  have  now  given  me;  though  I  am  far  from  accus- 
ing you  of  cruelty  at  present,  because  I  know  it  to  be  the 
established  custom  of  your  sex  to  reject  a  man  on  the  first — " 

She  did  not  turn  the  page;  for  a  moment  she  waited,  her 
mind  quite  empty  of  any  concentrated  thought,  her  eyes  see- 
ing nothing  but  the  shining,  glittering  expanse  of  the  Mirror. 

Very  quickly,  using  a  gold  pencil  that  hung  on  to  her 
watch  chain,  she  wrote  below  his  name :  "Yes.  Katherine." 

"Let  me  see  the  book,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "You 
must  know,  Mr.  Mark,  that  I  care  very  little  for  novels. 
There  is  so  much  to  do  in  this  world,  so  many  people  that 
need  care,  so  many  things  that  want  attention,  that  I  think 
one  is  scarcely  justified  in  spending  the  precious  time  over 
stories.  But  I  own  Miss  Austen  is  a  memory — a  really 
precious  memory  to  me.  Those  little  simple  stories  have 
their  charm  still,  Mr.  Mark.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Thank  you, 
my  dear." 

She  took  the  book  from  Katherine,  and  began  very  slowly 
to  turn  over  the  pages,  bending  upon  Miss  Austen's  labours 
exactly  the  look  of  kindly  patronage  that  she  would  have 
bent  upon  that  lady  herself  had  she  been  present. 

Katherine  glanced  at  Philip,  half  rose  in  her  chair,  and 
then  sat  down  again.  She  felt,  as  she  waited  for  the  dread- 
ful moment  to  pass,  a  sudden  perception  of  the  family — 
until  this  moment  they  had  not  occurred  to  her.  She  saw 
her  mother,  her  father,  her  grandfather,  her  aunts,  Henry, 
Millie.  Let  this  affair  be  suddenly  flung  upon  them  as  a 
result  of  Aunt  Aggie's  horrified  discovery  and  the  tumult 
would  be,  indeed,  terrible.  The  silence  in  the  room,  during 
those  moments,  almost  forced  her  to  cry  out. 


104  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Had  Philip  not  been  there  she  would  have  rushed  to  her 
aunt,  torn  the  book  from  her  hands,  and  surrendered  to  the 
avalanche. 

Aunt  Aggie  paused — she  peered  forward  over  the  page. 
With  a  little  cry  Katherine  stood  up,  her  knees  trembling, 
her  eyes  dimmed,  as  though  the  room  were  filled  with  fog. 

"I  doubt  very  much,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "whether  I  could 
read  it  now.  It  would  seem  strangely  old-fashioned,  I  dare- 
say, I'm  sure  to  a  modern  young  man  like  yourself,  Mr. 
Mark." 

Philip  took  the  book  from  her ;  he  opened  it,  read  Kather- 
ine's  answer,  laid  the  volume  very  carefully  upon  the  table. 

"I  can  assure,  Miss  Trenchard,"  he  said,  "a  glance  is 
enough  to  assure  me  that  'Pride  and  Prejudice'  is  and  al- 
ways will  be  my  favourite  novel." 

Katherine  moved  to  the  table,  picked  up  the  book,  and 
slipped  the  paper  from  the  leaves  into  her  belt  For  an  in- 
stant her  hand  touched  Philip's. 

Aunt  Aggie  looked  at  them,  and  satisfied  with  hot  tea,  a 
fire,  a  perfect  conscience  and  a  sense  of  her  real  importance 
in  the  business  of  the  world,  thought  to  herself — "Well,  this 
afternoon  at  any  rate  those  two  have  had  no  chance." 

She  was  drowsy  and  anxious  for  a  little  rest  before  dinner, 
but  her  guard,  she  assured  herself  with  a  pleasant  little  bit 
of  conscious  self-sacrifice,  should  not  be  relaxed.  .  .  . 

Eleven  had  boomed  that  night,  from  the  Abbey  clock, 
when  Philip  Mark  took  his  stand  opposite  the  old  house, 
looking  up,  as  all  the  lovers  in  fiction  and  most  of  the  lovers 
in  real  life  have  done,  at  his  mistress'  window.  A  little  red 
glow  of  light  was  there.  The  frosty  night  had  showered  its 
sky  with  stars,  frozen  into  the  blue  itself  in  this  clear  air, 
a  frozen  sea ;  an  orange  moon  scooped  into  a  dazzling  curve, 
lay  like  a  sail  that  had  floated  from  its  vessel,  idly  above 
the  town;  the  plane  trees  rustled  softly  once  and  again,  as 
though,  now  that  the  noise  of  men  had  died  away,  they  might 


THE  FINEST  THING  105 

whisper  in  comfort  together.  Sometimes  a  horn  blew  from 
the  river,  or  a  bell  rang. 

Philip  waited  there,  and  worshipped  with  all  the  humil- 
ity and  reverence  of  a  human  soul  at  the  threshold  of  Love. 

The  lights  in  the  house  went  out.  Now  all  the  Trenchards 
were  lying  upon  their  backs,  their  noses  towards  the  ceilings, 
the  ceilings  that  shut  off  that  starry  sky.  They  were  very 
secure,  fenced  round  by  Westminster.  No  danger  could 
threaten  their  strong  fortress.  .  .  .  Their  very  dreams  were 
winged  about  with  security,  their  happy  safety  was  penetrated 
by  no  consciousness  of  that  watching,  motionless  figure. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    SHOCK 

GEORGE  TRENCHARD'S  study  expressed,  very  pleas- 
antly, his  personality.  The  room's  walls  were  of  a 
deep  warm  red,  and  covering  three  sides  ran  high  bookcases 
with  glass  fronts ;  within  these  bookcases  were  beautiful  new 
editions,  ugly  old  ones,  books,  for  the  greater  part,  relating 
to  his  favourite  period,  all  ranged  and  ordered  with  the  most 
delicate  care.  The  windows  of  the  room  were  tall  and  bright 
even  on  dull  and  foggy  days,  the  carpet  soft  and  thick,  the 
leather  chairs  large  and  yielding,  the  fireplace  wide  and  shin- 
ing. Most  significant  of  all  was  his  writing-table ;  upon  this 
lay  everything  that  any  writer  could  possibly  desire,  from 
the  handsomest  of  gold  inkstands  to  the  minutest  of  elastic 
bands.  There  was  also  here  a  little  bust  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Within  this  room  George  Trenchard  knew,  always,  perfect 
happiness — a  very  exceptional  man,  indeed,  that  he  could 
know  it  so  easily.  He  knew  it  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
shutting  off  entirely  from  his  consciousness  the  rest  of  man- 
kind ;  his  study  door  once  closed,  he  forgot  his  family  abso- 
lutely. No  one  was  allowed  to  disturb  or  interrupt  him ;  it 
was  understood  that  he  was  at  work  upon  a  volume  that 
would  ultimately  make  another  of  that  series  that  contained 
already  such  well-known  books  as  "William  Wordsworth 
and  his  Circle,"  "Hazlitt — The  Man  in  his  Letters"  and 
"The  Life  of  Thomas  de  Quincey."  These  had  appeared  a 
number  of  years  ago ;  he  had  been  indeed  a  young  man  when 
he  had  written  them.  It  was  supposed  that  a  work  entitled 

106 


THE  SHOCK  107 


"The  Lake  Poets,  a  Critical  Survey"  would  appear 
Autumn'. 

For  some  time  now  the  literary  schemes  of  the  weekly 
journals  had  announced  this.  George  Trenchard  only 
laughed  at  enquiries:  "It  takes  a  damned  long  time,  you 
know,"  he  said,  "  'tisn't  any  use  rushing  the  thing."  He 
enjoyed,  however,  immensely,  making  notes.  From  half- 
past  nine  in  the  morning  until  half-past  one,  behind  his 
closed  doors,  he  considered  the  early  Nineteenth  Century, 
found  it  admirable  (Scott  seemed  to  him  the  perfect  type) 
took  first  one  book,  then  another  from  his  book-shelves,  wrote 
a  few  lines,  and  before  his  fire  imagined  the  Trenchards 
of  that  period,  considered  their  food  and  their  drink,  their 
morals,  their  humour  and  their  literature.  Hazlitt's  essays 
seemed  to  him  the  perfection,  not  of  English  prose,  but  of 
a  temporal  and  spiritual  attitude.  "Hang  it  all,"  he  would 
conclude,  "we're  a  rotten  lot  now-a-days."  He  did  not  worry 
over  this  conclusion,  but  it  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  a 
superior  attitude  during  the  rest  of  the  day  when  he  joined 
the  world.  "If  you  knew  as  much  about  the  early  Nine- 
teenth Century  as  I  do,"  he  seemed  to  say,  "you  wouldn't 
be  so  pleased  with  yourselves."  He  did  not,  however,  ex- 
press his  superiority  in  any  unpleasant  manner.  There  was 
never  anyone  more  amiable.  All  that  he  wanted  was  that 
everyone  should  be  happy,  and  to  be  that,  he  had  long  ago 
discovered,  one  must  not  go  too  deep.  "Keep  out  of  close 
relationships  and  you're  safe"  might  be  considered  his  advice 
to  young  people.  He  had  certainly  avoided  them  all  his  life, 
and  avoided  them  by  laughing  at  them.  He  couldn't  abide 
"gloomy  fellows"  and  on  no  account  would  he  allow  a  'scene'. 
He  had  never  lost  his  temper. 

During  the  months  that  he  spent  at  his  place  in  Glebeshire 
he  pursued  a  plan  identically  similar.  He  possessed  an  in- 
valuable 'factotum',  a  certain  James  Ritchie,  who  took 
everything  in  a  way  of  management  off  his  hands.  Ritchie 


108  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

in  Glebeshire,  Mrs.  Trenchard  and  Rocket  in  London.    Life 
was  made  very  simple  for  him. 

As  has  been  said  elsewhere,  Katherine,  alone  of  his  fam- 
ily, had  in  some  degree  penetrated  his  indifferent  jollity; 
that  was  because  she  really  did  seem  to  him  to  have  some 
of  the  Early  Nineteenth  Century  characteristics.  She 
seemed  to  him  (he  did  not  know  her  very  well)  tranquil, 
humorous,  unadventurous,  but  determined.  She  reminded 
him  of  Elizabeth  Bennet,  and  he  always  fancied  (he  re- 
garded her,  of  course,  from  a  distance,)  that  she  would  make 
a  very  jolly  companion.  She  seemed  to  him  wiser  than  the 
others,  with  a  little  strain  of  satirical  humour  in  her  com- 
ment on  things  that  pleased  him  greatly.  "She  should  have 
been  the  boy,  and  Henry  the  girl,"  he  would  say.  He  thought 
Henry  a  terrible  ass.  He  was  really  anxious  that  Katherine 
should  be  happy.  She.  deserved  it,  he  thought,  because  she 
was  a  little  wiser  than  the  others.  He  considered  sometimes 
her  future,  and  thought  that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  have 
her  always  about  the  place,  but  she  must  not  be  an  old  maid. 
She  was  too  good  for  that  "She'd  breed  a  good  stock," 
he  would  say.  "She  must  marry  a  decent  fellow — one  day." 
He  delighted  in  the  gentle  postponement  of  possibly  charm- 
ing climaxes.  His  size,  geniality  and  good  appetite  may  be 
attributed  very  largely  to  his  happy  gifts  of  procrastination. 
"Always  leave  until  to-morrow  what  ought  to  be  done  to- 
day" had  made  him  the  best-tempered  of  men. 

After  luncheon  on  the  day  that  followed  Philip's  tea  with 
Aunt  Aggie,  George  Trenchard  retired  to  his  study  "to 
finish  a  chapter".  He  intended  to  finish  it  in  hia  head 
rather  than  upon  paper,  and  it  was  even  possible  that  a  nap 
would  postpone  the  conclusion ;  he  lit  his  pipe  and  preferred 
to  be  comfortable — it  was  then  that  Rocket  informed  him 
that  Mr.  Mark  had  called,  wished  to  see  him  alone,  would 
not  keep  him  long,  apologised,  but  it  was  important. 

"Why  the  devil  couldn't  he  come  to  lunch  ?    What  a  time 


THE  SHOCK  109 

to  appear!"  JBut  Trenchard  liked  Philip,  Philip  amused 
him — he  was  so  alive  and  talked  such  ridiculous  nonsense. 
"Of  course  he  would  see  him !" 

Then  when  Trenchard  saw  Philip  Mark  standing  inside 
the  room,  waiting,  with  a  smile  half-nervous,  half-friendly, 
the  sight  of  that  square,  sturdy  young  man  gave  him  to  his 
own  uneasy  surprise  a  moment  of  vague  and  unreasonable 
alarm.  George  Trenchard  was  not  accustomed  to  feelings 
of  alarm;  it  was  his  principle  in  life  that  he  should  deny 
himself  such  things. 

He  connected  now,  however,  this  very  momentary  sensa- 
tion with  other  little  sensations  that  he  had  felt  before  in 
Philip's  company.  The  young  man  was  so  damnably  full 
of  his  experiences,  so  eager  to  compare  one  thing  with  an- 
other, so  insistent  upon  foreign  places  and  changes  in  Eng- 
land and  what  we'd  all  got  to  do  about  it.  Trenchard  did 
not  altogether  dislike  this  activity.  That  was  the  devil  of 
it.  It  would  never  do  to  change  his  life  at  this  time  of 
day.  .  .  . 

He  stood,  large,  genial,  and  rosy,  in  front  of  his  fire. 
"Well,  young  man,  what  are  you  descending  upon  us  at 
this  hour  for  ?  Why  couldn't  you  come  to  lunch  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  seriously  about  something.  I 
wanted  to  see  you  alone." 

"Well,  here  I  am.  Sit  down.  Have  a  cigar."  Trenchard 
saw  that  Philip  was  nervous,  and  he  liked  him  the  better 
for  that.  "He's  a  nice  young  fellow,  nice  and  clean  and 
healthy — not  too  cocksure  either,  although  he's  clever." 

Philip,  on  his  part,  felt,  at  this  moment,  a  desperate  de- 
termination to  make  all  the  Trenchard  family  love  him. 
They  must.  .  .  .  They  MUST. 

His  heart  was  bursting  with  charity,  with  fine  illusions, 
with  self-deprecation,  with  Trenchard  exultation.  He 
carried  the  flaming  banner  of  one  who  loves  and  knows  that 
he  is  loved  in  return. 

He  looked  round  upon  George  Trenchard's  bookcases  and 


110  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

thought  that  there  could,  surely,  be  nothing  finer  than  writ- 
ing critical  hooks  about  early  Nineteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture. 

"I  love  Katherine,"  he  said,  sitting  on  the  very  edge  of 
his  arm-chair.  "And  she  loves  me.  We  want  to  be  married." 

George  Trenchard  stared  at  him. 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  he  said  at  last,  "you've  got  some 
cheek !"  His  first  impression  was  one  of  a  strange  illumina- 
tion around  and  about  Katherine,  as  though  his  daughter 
had  been  standing  before  him  in  the  dark  and  then  had  sud- 
denly been  surrounded  with  blazing  candles.  Although  he 
had,  as  has  been  said,  already  considered  the  possibility  of 
Katherine's  marriage,  he  had  never  considered  the  possibil- 
ity of  her  caring  for  someone  outside  the  family.  That 
struck  him,  really,  as  amazing.  That  made  him  regard  his 
daughter,  for  a  moment,  as  someone  quite  new  and  strange. 

He  burst  into  laughter. 

"It's  ridiculous!"  he  said.  "Why!  you  two  have  scarcely 
seen  one  another!" 

Philip  blushed,  but  looked  up  into  Trenchard's  face  with 
eyes  that  were  strangely  pleading  for  a  man  who  could,  at 
other  times,  be  so  firmly  authoritative. 

X"I  know  that  it  must  seem  so  to  you,"  he  said.  "But 
really  we  have  met  a  good  deal.  I  knew  from  the  very  be- 
ginning. .  .  .  I'll  make  her  happy,"  he  ended,  almost  de- 
fiantly,, as  though  he  were  challenging  some  unseen  enemy. 

"Well,  state  your  case,"  said  Trenchard. 

"I  love  her,"  he  stammered  a  little,  then  his  voice  cleared 
and  he  stared  straight  before  him  at  Trenchard's  velvet 
waistcoat  "Of  course  there've  been  people  in  my  life  be- 
fore, but  I've  never  felt  anything  like  this.  I  should  like 
to  tell  you  that  my  life  is  absolutely  free  from  any  entangle- 
ments— of  any  kind.  I'm  thirty  and  as  fit  as  a  fiddle.  My 
share  in  the  business  and  some  other  things  come  to  about 
fifteen  hundred  a  year.  It's  all  very  decently  invested,  but, 
of  course,  I'd  show  you  all  that.  I'm  not  bad  about  manag- 


THE  SHOCK  111 

ing  those  things,  although  you  mightn't  think  so.  I  want 
to  buy  a  little  place  somewhere  in  England  and  settle  down 
— a  little  place  with  a  bit  of  land.  I  do  think  I  could  make 
Katherine  happy — I'd  devote  myself  to  that." 

"She  cares  for  you?"  asked  Trenchard. 

"Yes,"  said  Philip  quite  simply. 

"Well,  I'm  damned,"  said  Trenchard. 

This  was  not  so  rude  as  it  appeared  to  be.  He  was  not 
thinking  about  Philip  at  all — only  about  Katherine.  She 
had  fallen  in  love,  she,  Katherine,  the  staid,  humorous, 
comfortable  companion.  He  had  not  realised,  until  now, 
that  he  had  always  extracted  much  complacent  comfort  from 
the  belief  that  she  cared  for  him  more  than  for  any  other 
member  of  the  family.  He  did  not  know  that  every  indi- 
vidual member  extracted  from  Katherine  the  same  comfort. 
He  looked  at  Philip.  What  did  she  see  in  the  man  to  lead 
her  to  such  wild  courses?  He  was  nice  enough  to  look  at, 
to  listen  to — but  to  love?  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  quiet 
daughter  must  have  been  indulging  in  melodrama. 

"Why,  you  know,"  he  cried  at  last,  "it  never  entered  my 
head — Katherine's  marrying  anybody.  She's  very  young — 
you're  very  young  too." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Philip,  "I'm  thirty — lots  of  men 
have  families  by  then." 

"No,  but  you're  young  though — both  of  you,"  persisted 
Trenchard.  "I  don't  think  I  want  Katherine  to  marry  any- 
body." 

"Isn't  that  rather  selfish  ?"  said  Philip. 

"Yes.  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Trenchard,  laughing,  "but 
it's  natural." 

"It  isn't,  you  see,"  said  Philip  eagerly,  "as  though  I 
wanted  to  take  her  away  to  Russia  or  in  any  way  deprive 
you  of  her.  I  know  how  much  she  is  to  all  of  you.  She's 
sure  to  marry  some  day,  isn't  she  ?  and  it's  much  better  that 
she  should  marry  someone  who's  going  to  settle  down  here 


112  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

and  live  as  you  all  do  than  someone  who'd  go  right  off  with 
her." 

"It's  all  right,  I  shouldn't  let  him,"  said  Trenchard.  He 
bent  his  eyes  upon  the  eager  lover,  and  again  said  to  him- 
self that  he  liked  the  young  man.  It  would  certainly  be 
much  pleasanter  that  Katherine  should  care  about  a  fine 
healthy  young  fellow,  a  good  companion  after  dinner,  a 
good  listener  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  humour,  than  that 
she  should  force  into  the  heart  of  the  family  some  impossi- 
bility— not  that  Katherine  was  likely  to  care  about  impossi- 
bilities, but  you  never  knew ;  the  world  to-day  was  so  full  of 
impossibilities.  .  .  . 

"I  think  we'll  send  for  Katherine,"  he  said. 

He  rang  the  bell,  Rocket  came,  Katherine  was  summoned. 
As  they  waited  Trenchard  delivered  himself  of  a  random, 
half -humorous,  half-conscious,  half -unconscious  discourse: 

"You  know,  I  like  you — and  I  don't  often  like  modern 
young  men.  I  wouldn't  mind  you  at  all  as  a  son-in-law, 
and  you'd  suit  me  as  a  son  much  better  than  Henry  does. 
At  least  I  think  so,  but  then  I  know  you  very  slightly,  and 
I  may  dislike  you  intensely  later  on.  We  none  of  us  know 
you,  you  see.  We  never  had  anybody  drop  in  upon  us  as 
you  did.  ...  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  a  bit  like  Katherine 
— and  I  don't  suppose  she  knows  you  any  better  than  the 
rest  of  us  do.  She  mayn't  like  you  later  on.  I  can't  say 
that  marriage  is  going  to  be  what  you  think  it  is.  You're 
very  unsettling.  You  won't  keep  quiet  and  take  things 
easily,  and  Katherine.  is  sure  not  to  like  that.  She's  as 
quiet  as  anything.  ...  If  it  were  Millie  now.  I  suppose 
you  wouldn't  care  to  have  Millie  instead?  she'd  suit  you 
much  better.  Then,  you  know,  the  family  won't  like  your 
doing  it.  My  wife  won't  like  it."  He  paused,  then,  stand- 
ing, his  legs  wide  apart,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  roared 
with  laughter:  "It  will  disturb  them  all — not  that  it  won't 
be  good  for  them  perhaps.  You're  not  to  think  though  that 
I've  given  my  consent — at  any  rate  you're  not  to  marry  her 


THE  SHOCK  113 

for  a  long  time  until  we  see  what  you're  like.  I'm  not  to 
give  her  just  to  anyone  who  comes  along,  you  know.  I 
rather  wish  you'd  stayed  in  Russia.  It's  very  unsettling." 

The  door  opened — Katherine  entered.  She  looked  at 
Philip,  smiled,  then  came  across  to  her  father  and  put  her 
arm  through  his.  She  said  nothing,  but  was  radiant;  her 
father  felt  her  hand  tremble  as  it  touched  his,  and  that  sud- 
denly moved  him  as,  perhaps,  nothing  had  ever  moved  him 
before. 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"But  you  hardly  know  him." 

"I  know  him  very  well  indeed,"  she  said,  looking  at 
Philip's  eyes. 

"But  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  anyone,"  her  father  went 
on.  "We  were  all  very  nice  as  we  were.  .  .  .  What'll  you 
do  if  I  say  you're  not  to  marry  him?" 

"You  won't  say  that,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  him. 

"What  do  you  want  to  marry  him  for  ?"  he  asked.  "He's 
just  an  ordinary  young  man.  You  don't  know  him,"  he  re- 
peated, "you  can't  yet,  you've  seen  so  little  of  him.  Then 
you'll  upset  us  all  here  very  much — it  will  be  very  un- 
pleasant for  everybody.  Do  you  really  think  it's  worth  it  ?" 

Katherine  laughed.  "I  don't  think  I  can  help  it,  father," 
she  answered. 

Deep  in  Trenchard's  consciousness  was  the  conviction, 
very  common  to  men  of  good  digestion  over  fifty,  that  had 
he  been  God  he  would  have  managed  the  affairs  of  the  world 
very  agreeably  for  everybody.  He  had  not,  often,  been  in 
the  position  of  absolute  power,  but  that  was  because  he  had 
not  often  taken  the  trouble  to  come  out  of  his  comfortable 
shelter  and  see  what  people  were  doing.  He  felt  now  that 
he  could  be  Jove  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  without  any  dis- 
comfort to  himself — a  very  agreeable  feeling. 

He  was  also  the  most  kind-hearted  of  men.  "Seriously, 
Katherine,"  he  said,  separating  himself  from  her,  drawing 


114  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

his  legs  together  and  frowning,  "you're  over  age.  You  can 
do  what  you  like.  In  these  days  children  aren't  supposed  to 
consider  their  parents,  and  I  don't  really  see  why  they 
should  .  .  .  it's  not  much  I've  done  for  you.  But  you're 
fond  of  us.  We've  rather  hung  together  as  a  family.  .  .  . 
I  like  your  young  man,  but  I've  only  known  him  a  week  or 
two,  and  I  can't  answer  for  him.  You  know  us,  but  you 
don't  know  him.  Are  you  sure  you're  making  a  wise  ex- 
change ?" 

Here  Philip  broke  in  eagerly  but  humbly.  "It  isn't  that 
there  need  be  any  change,"  he  said.  "Katherine  shall  be- 
long to  you  all  just  as  much  as  ever  she  did." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Trenchard  laughing. 

"I'll  be  proud,"  Philip  cried,  impulsively,  jumping  up 
from  his  chair,  "if  you'll  let  me  marry  Katherine,  but  I'll 
never  forget  that  she  was  yours  first.  Of  course  I  can't 
come  into  the  family  as  though  I'd  always  been  one  of  you, 
but  I'll  do  my  best.  .  .  .  I'll  do  my  best.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Trenchard,  touched  by  the  happy 
atmosphere  that  he  seemed,  with  a  nod  of  his  head,  to  fling 
about  him,  "don't  think  I'm  preventing  you.  I  want  every- 
one to  be  pleased,  I  always  have.  If  you  and  Katherine 
have  made  up  your  minds  about  this,  there  isn't  very  much 
for  me  to  say.  If  I  thought  you'd  make  her  miserable  I'd 
show  you  the  door,  but  I  don't  think  you  will.  All  I  say  is 
— we  don't  know  you  well  enough  yet  Nor  does  she.  After 
all,  does  she?"  He  paused,  and  then,  enjoying  the  sense 
of  their  listening  attention,  thought  that  he  would  make  a 
little  speech.  "You're  like  children  in  a  dark  wood,  you 
know.  You  think  you've  found  one  another — caught  hold 
of  one  another — but  when  there's  a  bit  of  a  moon  or  some- 
thing to  see  one  another  by  you  may  find  out  you've  each 
of  you  caught  hold  of  someone  quite  different.  Then,  there 
you  are,  you  see.  That's  all  I  can  tell  you  about  marriage ; 
all  your  lives  you'll  be  in  the  forest,  thinking  you've  made 
a  clutch  at  somebody,  just  for  comfort's  sake.  But  you  never 


THE  SHOCK  115 

know  whom  you're  catching — it's  someone  different  every 
five  minutes,  even  when  it's  the  same  person.  Well,  well 
— all  I  mean  is  that  you  mustn't  marry  for  a  year  at  least." 

"Oh !  a  year !"  cried  Philip. 

"Yes,  a  year.  Won't  hear  of  it  otherwise.  What  do  you 
say,  Katherine?" 

"I  think  Philip  and  I  can  wait  as  long  as  that  quite 
safely,"  she  answered,  looking  at  her  lover. 

Trenchard  held  out  his  hand  to  Philip.  "I  congratulate 
you,"  he  said.  "If  you've  made  Katherine  love  you  you're 
a  lucky  fellow.  Dear  me — yes,  you  are."  He  put  his  hand 
on  Philip's  shoulder.  "You'd  better  be  good  to  her,"  he 
said,  "or  there'll  be  some  who'll  make  you  pay  for  it." 

"Be  good  to  her!     My  God!"  answered  Philip. 

"Now  you'd  better  clear.  Reveal  yourselves  to  the  fam- 
ily. .  .  .  There,  Katherine,  my  dear,  give  me  a  kiss.  Don't 
neglect  me  or  I  shall  poison  the  villain.  .  .  .  There,  there 
— God  bless  you." 

He  watched  them  depart  with  real  affection  both  for  them 
and  for  himself. 

"I'm  not  such  a  bad  father  after  all,"  he  thought  as  he 
settled  down  into  his  chair. 

Outside  the  study  door,  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  little 
passage,  Philip  kissed  Katherine.  Her  lips  met  his  with  a 
passion  that  had  in  it  complete  and  utter  self-surrender. 

They  did  not  speak. 

At  last,  drawing  herself  gently  away  from  him,  she  said: 
"I'll  tell  Mother — I  think  it  would  be  better  not  for  both 
of  us.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  he  whispered  back,  as  though  they  were  conspira- 
tors. "I  don't  think  I'll  face  them  all  now — unless  you'd 
like  me  to  help  you.  I'll  come  in  to-night." 

With  a  strange,  fierce,  almost  desperate  action  she  caught 
his  arm  and  held  him  for  a  moment  with  his  cheek  against 
liers. 


116  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Oh!  Philip  .  .  .  my  dear  I"  Her  voice  caught  and 
broke.  They  kissed  once  again,  and  then,  very  quietly,  went 
back  into  the  world. 

Meanwhile  they  had  been  watched;  Henry  had  watched 
them.  He  had  been  crossing  at  the  farther  end  of  the  little 
passage,  and  stopping,  holding  himself  back  against  the  wall, 
had  seen,  with  staring  eyes,  the  two  figures.  He  knew  in- 
stantly. They  were  Philip  and  Katherine,  He  saw  Kather- 
ine's  hand  as  it  pressed  into  Philip's  shoulder;  he  saw 
Philip's  back  set  with  so  fierce  a  strength  that  Henry's  knees 
trembled  before  the  energy  of  it.  He  was  disgusted — he 
was  wildly  excited.  "This  is  real  life.  .  .  .  I've  seen  some- 
thing at  last.  I  didn't  know  people  kissed  like  that,  but 
they  oughtn't  to  do  it  in  the  passage.  Anyone  might  see 
them.  .  .  .  Katherine!" 

Staggered  by  the  contemplation  of  an  utterly  new  Kath- 
erine with  whom,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  he  would  be  com- 
pelled to  deal,  he  slipped  into  a  room  as  he  heard  their  steps. 
When  they  had  gone  he  came  out ;  he  knocked  on  his  father's 
door: 

"I'm  sorry  to  bother  you,  Father,"  he  began.  "I  wanted 
to  know  whether  I  might  borrow — "  he  stopped;  his  heart 
was  beating  so  wildly  that  his  tongue  did  not  belong  to  him. 

"Well,  get  it  and  cut."  His  father  looked  at  him. 
"You've  heard  the  news,  I  see." 

"What  news?"  said  Henry. 

"Philip  and  Katherine.  They're  engaged,  they  tell  me. 
Not  to  marry  for  a  year  though.  ...  I  thought  you'd  heard 
it  by  the  look  of  you.  What  a  mess  you're  in !  Why  can't 
you  brush  your  hair  ?  Look  at  your  tie  up  the  back  of  your 
collar !  Get  your  book  and  go !  I'm  busy !" 

But  Henry  went  without  his  book. 

Katherine  went  up  to  her  mother's  room.  She  would 
catch  her  alone  now  for  half  an  hour  before  tea-time,  when 
many  of  the  family  would  be  assembled,  ready  for  the  news. 


THE  SHOCK  117 

With  such  wild  happiness  was  she  surrounded  that  she  saw 
them  all  in  the  light  of  that  happiness;  she  had  always 
shared  so  readily  in  any  piece  of  good  fortune  that  had  ever 
befallen  any  one  of  them  that  she  did  not  douht  that  now 
they  too  would  share  in  this  fortune — this  wonderful  for- 
tune!— of  hers.  She  stopped  at  the  little  window  in  the 
passage  where  she  had  had  the  first  of  her  little  personal 
scraps  of  talk  with  Philip.  Little  scraps  of  talks  were  all 
that  they  had  been,  and  yet  now,  looking  back  upon  them, 
how  weighted  they  seemed  with  heavy  golden  significance. 
The  sky  was  amber-coloured,  the  Abbey  tower  sharply  black, 
and  the  low  archway  of  Dean's  Yard,  that  she  could  just 
catch  with  her  eye,  was  hooped  against  the  sky,  pushing  up- 
wards to  have  its  share  in  the  evening  light.  There  was 
perfect  quiet  in  the  house  and  beyond  it,  as  she  went  to 
her  mother's  room.  This  room  was  the  very  earliest  thing 
that  she  could  remember,  this,  or  her  mother's  bedroom  in 
the  Glebeshire  house.  It  was  a  bedroom  that  exactly  ex- 
pressed Mrs.  Trenchard,  large,  clumsy,  lit  with  five  windows, 
mild  and  full  of  unarranged  trifles  that  nevertheless  ar- 
ranged themselves.  At  the  foot  of  the  large  bed,  defended 
with  dark  sateen  faded  curtains,  was  a  comfortable  old- 
fashioned  sofa.  Further  away  in  the  middle  of  a  clear  space 
was  a  table  with  a  muddle  of  things  upon  it — a  doll  half- 
clothed,  a  writing-case,  a  silver  inkstand,  photographs  of 
Millie,  Henry  and  Katherine,  a  little  younger  than  they 
were  now,  a  square  silver  clock,  a  pile  of  socks  with  a  needle 
sticking  sharply  out  of  them,  a  little  oak  book-case  with 
'Keble's  Christian  Year',  Charlotte  Yonge's  'Pillars  of  the 
House',  two  volumes  of  Bishop  Westcott's  'Sermons'  and 
Mrs.  Gaskell's  'Wives  and  Daughters'.  There  was  also  a 
little  brass  tray  with  a  silver  thimble,  tortoiseshell  paper- 
knife,  a  little  mat  made  of  bright-coloured  beads,  a  reel  of 
red  silk  and  a  tiny  pocket  calendar.  Beside  the  bed  there 
was  a  small  square  oaken  table  with  a  fine  silver  Crucifix 
and  a  Bible  and  a  prayer  book  and  copy  of  'Before  the 


118  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Throne'  in  dark  blue  leather.  The  pictures  on  the  walls — 
they  hung  against  a  wall-paper  of  pink  roses,  faded  like  the 
bedroom  curtains  and  the  dark  red  carpet,  but  comfortably, 
happily  faded — were  prints  of  'Ulysses  Deriding  Poly- 
phemus', 'Crossing  the  Brook',  and  'Christ  leaving  the 
Temple'.  These  three  pictures  were  the  very  earliest  things 
of  Katherine's  remembrance.  There  were  also  several  photo- 
graphs of  old-fashioned  but  sturdy  ladies  and  gentlemen — an 
officer  in  uniform,  a  lady  with  high  shoulders  against  a  back- 
ground of  a  grey  rolling  sea.  There  were  photographs  of 
the  children  at  different  ages.  There  were  many  cupboards, 
and  these,  although  they  were  closed,  seemed  to  bulge,  as 
though  they  contained  more  clothes  than  was  comfortable 
for  them. 

There  was  a  faint  scent  in  the  room  of  eau-de-cologne  and 
burning  candles.  The  little  clock  on  the  table  gave  an 
irritating,  self-important  whirr  and  clatter  now  and  then, 
and  it  had  been  doing  that  for  a  great  many  years. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  was  lying  upon  her  sofa  making  a  little 
crimson  jacket  for  the  half-clothed  doll.  She  did  not  move 
when  Katherine  came  in,  but  went  on  with  her  work,  her 
fat,  rather  clumsy-looking  fingers  moving  very  comfortably 
up  and  down  the  little  piece  of  red  cloth. 

"Who  is  that  ?"  she  said. 

"It's  I,  Mother,"  said  Katherine,  remaining  by  the  door. 

"Ah,  it's  you,  dear,"  her  mother  answered.  "Just  give 
me  that  doll  on  the  table.  It's  for  Miss  Sawyer's  Bazaar 
in  the  Hampstead  Rooms.  I  said  I'd  dress  three  dolls,  and 
I  only  remembered  this  morning  that  they've  got  to  go  off  to- 
morrow. I  thought  I'd  snatch  this  quiet  time  before  tea. 
Yes,  it's  for  Miss  Sawyer,  poor  thing.  I'm  sure  I  shall 
run  out  of  red  silk,  and  I  don't  suppose  there's  any  in  the 
house.  Did  you  want  anything,  Katherine?" 

Katherine  came  forward,  picked  up  the  doll  from  the 
table  and  gave  it  to  her  mother.  Then  she  went  to  one  of 
the  broad  high  windows  and  stood  looking  out.  She  could 


THE  SHOCK  119 

see  the  river,  over  whose  face  the  evening,  3tudded  with 
golden  lamps,  was  dropping  its  veil.  She  could  see,  very 
dimly,  Westminster  Bridge,  with  dots  and  little  splashes 
of  black  passing  and  repassing  with  the  mechanical  indif- 
ference of  some  moving  toy.  The  sight  of  her  mother's  room 
had  suddenly  told  her  that  her  task  would  be  a  supremely 
difficult  one;  she  did  not  know  why  she  had  not  realised 
that  before.  Her  personal  happiness  was  overwhelmed  by 
her  consciousness  of  her  mother;  nothing  at  this  moment 
seemed  to  be  of  importance  save  their  relations,  the  one  to 
the  other.  "I'm  going  to  hurt  her,"  she  thought,  as  she 
turned  round  from  the  window.  All  her  life  it  had  been  her 
urgent  passion  to  save  her  mother  from  pain. 

"Mother  dear,"  she  said,  "I've  got  something  very  im- 
portant to  tell  you.  Mr.  Mark  has  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
and  I've  accepted  him.  Father  says  we're  to  wait  for  a 
year." 

She  moved  forward  and  then  stopped.  Mrs.  Trenchard 
looked  at  her,  suddenly,  as  a  house  of  cards  crumples  up  at 
a  single  touch,  her  face  puckered  as  though  she  were  going 
to  cry.  For  an  instant  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  baby.  It 
was  so  swift  that  in  a  flash  it  was  gone,  and  only  in  the 
eyes  there  was  still  the  effect  of  it.  Her  hands  trembled 
so  that  she  forced  them  down  upon  her  lap.  Then  her  face, 
except  for  her  eyes,  which  were  terrified,  wore  again  exactly 
her  look  of  placid,  rather  stupid  composure.  The  force  that 
she  had  driven  into  her  hands  had  done  its  work,  for  now 
she  could  raise  them  again;  in  one  hand  she  held  the  doll 
and  in  another  the  little  red  jacket. 

"My  dear  Katherine!"  she  said.  Then — "Just  give  me 
that  reel  of  silk,  dear,  on  the  table."  Then — "But  it's 
absurd — you  don't — "  she  seemed  to  struggle  with  her  words 
as  though  she  were  beating  back  some  other  personality  that 
threatened  to  rise  and  overwhelm  her.  "You  don't — 
She  found  her  words.  "You  don't  know  him." 

Katherine  broke  in  eagerly.      "I  loved  him  at  the  very 


120  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

beginning  I  think.  I  felt  I  knew  him  at  once.  I  don't 
know;  it's  so  hard  to  see  how  it  began,  but  I  can't  help  it, 
Mother.  I've  known  it  myself  for  weeks  now;  Mother — " 
She  knelt  down  beside  the  sofa  and  looked  up,  and  then,  at 
something  in  her  mother's  eyes,  looked  down  again.  "Please 
— please — I  know  it  seems  strange  to  you  now,  but  soon 
you'll  get  to  know  him — then  you'll  be  glad — "  She  broke 
off,  and  there  followed  a  long  silence. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  put  down  the  doll  very  carefully,  and 
then,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  lay  back  on  her  sofa. 
She  watched  the  dark  evening  as  it  gathered  in  beyond  the 
windows;  she  heard  her  maid's  knock  on  the  door,  watched 
her  draw  the  curtains  and  switch  on  the  light. 

It  was  only  four  o'clock,  but  it  was  very  cold. 

"I  think  I'll  have  my  shawl,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 
"The  Indian  one  that  your  Uncle  Timothy  gave  me — it's 
in  the  third  drawer — there — to  the  right.  .  .  .  Thank  you. 
I  must  go  down.  Grandfather's  coming  down  to  tea  this 
afternoon." 

Katherine  drew  closer  to  the  sofa,  after  she  had  brought 
the  shawl ;  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  mother's,  which  were 
very  cold. 

"But,  Mother,  you've  said  nothing!  I  know  that  now  it 
irmst  seem  as  though  I'd  done  it  without  asking  you,  without 
telling  you,  but  I  didn't  know  myself  until  yesterday  after- 
noon. It  came  so  suddenly." 

"Yesterday  afternoon  ?"  Mrs.  Trenchard  drew  her  shawl 
closely  about  her.  "But  how  could  he — Mr.  Mark — yester- 
day afternoon?  You  weren't  alone  with  him — Aggie  was 
there.  Surely  she — " 

"No.  He  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  slipped  it  across 
to  me,  ~iid  I  said  'yes/  We  both  felt  we  couldn't  wait." 

"I  don't  like  him,"  Mrs.  Trenchard  said  slowly.  "You 
knew  that  I  didn't  like  him." 

The  colour  rose  in  Katherine's  cheeks. 


THE  SHOCK  121 

,"  she  said,  "I  kne"w  that  you  thought  some  of  his 
ideas  odd.  But  you  didn't  know  him." 

"I  don't  like  him,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard  again.  "I  could 
never  like  him.  He  isn't  a  religious  man.  He  has  a  bad 
effect  upon  Henry.  You,  Katherine,  to  accept  him  when 
you  know  that  he  doesn't  go  to  church  and  was  so  rude 
to  poor  Mr.  Seymour  and  thinks  Russia  such  a  fine  country ! 
I  can't  think,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  her  hands  trembling 
again,  "what's  come  over  you." 

Katherine  got  up  from  her  knees.  "You  won't  think  that 
when  you  know  him  better.  It's  only  that  he's  seen  more 
of  the  world  than  we  have.  He'll  change  and  we'll  change, 
and  perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  all  of  us.  Down  in  Glebe- 
shire  we  always  have  done  so  much  the  same  things  and 
seen  the  same  people,  and  even  here  in  London — " 

Her  mother  gave  a  little  cry,  not  sharp  for  anyone  else 
in  the  world,  but  very  sharp  indeed  for  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

"You !  Katherine — you !    If  it  had  been  Millie !" 

They  looked  at  one  another  then  in  silence.  They  were 
both  of  them  conscious  of  an  intensity  of  love  that  they  had 
borne  towards  one  another  through  the  space  of  a  great  many 
years — a  love  that  nothing  else  had  ever  approached.  But 
it  was  an  emotion  that  had  always  been  expressed  in  the 
quietest  terms.  Both  to  Katherine  and  her  mother  demon- 
strations were  unknown.  Katherine  felt  now,  at  what 
promised  to  be,  perhaps,  the  sharpest  crisis  that  her  life  had 
yet  experienced,  an  urgent  desire  to  break  through,  to  fling 
her  arms  round  her  mother,  to  beat  down  all  barriers,  to  as- 
sure her  that  whatever  emotion  might  come  to  her,  nothing 
could  touch  their  own  perfect  relationship.  But  the  habits 
of  years  muffled  everything  in  thick,  thick  wrappings — it 
was  impossible  to  break  through. 

"Your  father  is  pleased  ?"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

"Yes,"  answered  Katherine.  "He  likes  Philip.  But  we 
must  wait  a  year." 


122  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Your  father  has  never  told  me  anything.  Never."  She 
got  up  slowly  from  the  sofa. 

"He  couldn't  have  told  you,"  Katherine  said  eagerly. 
"He  has  only  just  known.  I  came  straight  to  you  from 
him." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  now  stood,  looking  rather  lost,  in  the 
middle  of  her  room;  the  shawl  had  slipped  half  from  her 
shoulders,  and  she  seemed,  suddenly,  an  old  woman. 

The  vision  of  something  helpless  in  her,  as  she  stood  there, 
stirred  Katherine  passionately. 

She  took  her  mother  into  her  arms,  stroking  her  hair, 
kissing  her  cheeks  and  whispering  to  her:  "Darling — 
darling — it  doesn't  make  any  difference  to  us — it  can't — it 
can't.  Nothing  can.  Nothing.  .  .  .  Nothing!" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  kissed  her  daughter  very  quietly,  re- 
mained in  her  embrace  for  a  little,  then  drew  herself  away 
and  went  to  her  mirror.  She  tidied  her  hair,  patted  her 
dress,  put  some  eau-de-Cologne  on  her  handkerchief,  laid 
the  shawl  carefully  away  in  the  drawer. 

"I  must  go  down  now.  Father  will  want  his  tea.  I'll 
take  the  doll — I  shan't  have  another  chance  of  finishing  it." 
She  walked  to  the  door,  then,  turning,  said  with  an  intensity 
that  was  amazing  in  its  sudden  vehemence  and  fire:  "No 
one  shall  take  you  from  me,  Katherine.  No  one.  Let  him 
do  what  he  likes.  No  one  shall  take  you." 

She  did  not  appear  an  old  woman,  then,  as  she  faced  her 
daughter. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  drawing-room,  the  family  had  already 
gathered  together  as  though  it  were  aware  that  something 
had  occurred.  Mr.  Trenchard,  Senior,  surrounded  by  his 
rugs,  his  especial  table,  his  silver  snuff-box  (he  never  took 
snuff  in  the  drawing-room,  but  liked  his  box  to  be  there), 
a  case  of  spectacles,  and  the  last  number  of  'Blackwood's 
Magazine'.  Great  Aunt  Sarah,  Aunt  Aggie,  Aunt  Betty, 
and  Millie.  Millie,  watching  them,  was,  to  her  own  immense 
surprise,  sorry  for  them. 


THE  SHOCK  123 

Millie,  watching  them,  wondered  at  herself.  What  had 
happened  to  her?  She  had  returned  from  Paris,  eager  to 
find  herself  as  securely  inside  the  family  as  she  had  always 
been — longing  after  the  wide,  vague  horizons  of  the  outside 
world  to  feel  that  security.  She  had  laughed  at  them  a  little, 
perhaps,  but  she  had  always  understood  and  approved  of 
their  motives. 

Now  she  found  herself  at  every  turn  criticising,  wonder- 
ing, defending  against  her  own  intelligence,  as  though  she 
had  been  the  merest  stranger.  She  loved  them — all  of  them 
— but — how  strong  they  were!  And  how  terrible  of  her 
that  she  should  find  them  strange!  They  were  utterly  un- 
aware of  any  alteration  in  her;  she  seemed  to  herself  to 
be  a  spy  in  their  midst.  .  .  . 

Happily,  however,  they  were  all,  this  afternoon,  most 
comfortably  unaware  of  any  criticism  from  anyone  in  the 
world.  They  sat  about  the  room,  waiting  for  their  tea  and 
saying  very  little.  They  knew  one  another  so  well  that  con- 
versation was  a  mere  emphasis  of  platitudes.  Aunt  Aggie 
talked,  but  nobody  listened,  unless  one  of  the  above-men- 
tioned assurances  were  demanded. 

Her  dry,  sharp  little  voice,  like  the  fire  and  the  ticking  of 
the  clock,  made  an  agreeable  background. 

Upon  this  innocent  gathering,  so  happy  and  tranquil, 
Henry  burst  with  his  news.  He  came  with  all  the  excited 
vehemence  sprung  from  his  own  vision  of  the  lovers.  He 
could  see  only  that;  he  did  not  realise  that  the  others  had 
not  shared  his  experience.  It  was  almost  as  though  he  had 
tumbled  into  the  middle  of  them,  so  abrupt,  so  agitated,  so 
incoherent  was  he! 

"They're  engaged!"  he  burst  out. 

"My  dear  Henry!"  said  Millie.     "What's  the  matter?" 

"I  tell  you!  Katherine  and  Mark.  They've  been  into 
father,  and  he  says  they're  to  wait  a  year,  but  it's  all  right 
He  says  that  he  didn't  know  till  they  told  him.  Katherine's 
with  Mother  now, — Mark's  coming  in  to-night;  Katherine!" 


124  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

He  broke  off,  words  failed  him,  and  he  was  suddenly 
conscious  of  his  Uncle's  eye. 

"What  ?"  said  Aunt  Aggie. 

"They're  engaged,"  repeated  Henry. 

"Whom?"  cried  Aunt  Aggie,  ungrammatically,  with  a 
shrill  horror  that  showed  that  she  had  already  heard. 

"Katie  and  Philip,"  Henry  almost  screamed  in  reply. 

What  Aunt  Aggie,  whose  eyes  were  staring  as  though  she 
saw  ghosts  or  a  man  under  her  hed,  would  have  said  to 
this  no  one  could  say,  hut  Aunt  Sarah  drove,  like  a  four- 
wheeled  coach,  right  across  her  protruding  body. 

Aunt  Sarah  said:  "What  are  you  all  talking  about? 
What's  the  matter  with  Henry  ?  Is  he  ill  ?  I  can't  hear." 

Millie  went  up  to  her.  "Katherine's  engaged,  Aunt 
Sarah,  to  Mr.  Mark." 

"What  do  you  say  about  Katherine?" 

"She's  engaged." 

"She's  what?" 

"ENGAGED  !" 

"Who  to?" 

"Mr.  Mark." 

"Eh?    What?" 

"Markl" 

At  the  shouting  of  that  name  it  did  indeed  seem  that  the 
very  walls  and  ceiling  of  that  old  room  would  collapse.  To 
Aunt  Aggie,  to  Millie,  to  Henry,  to  Aunt  Betty,  this  raid 
upon  Katherine  struck  more  deeply  than  any  cynical  student 
of  human  nature  could  have  credited.  For  the  moment 
Philip  Mark  was  forgotten — only  was  it  apparent  to  them 
all  from  Grandfather  Trenchard  and  Great  Aunt  Sarah  to 
Henry  that  Katherine,  their  own  absolute  property,  the 
assurance  given  to  them  that  life  would  be  always  secure, 
solid,  unalterable,  had  declared  publicly,  before  the  world, 
that  she  preferred  a  stranger,  a  complete,  blown-from-any- 
where  stranger,  to  the  family.  What  would  happen  to 
them  all,  to  their  comforts,  their  secret  preferences  and 


THE  SHOCK  125 

habits  (known  as  they  all,  individually,  believed,  only  to 
Katherine),  to  their  pride,  to  their  self-esteem?  They  loved 
one  another,  yes,  they  loved  the  Trenchard  family,  the 
Trenchard  position,  but  through  all  these  things,  as  a  skewer 
through  beef,  ran  their  reliance  upon  Katherine.  It  was 
as  though  someone  had  cried  to  them :  "The  whole  of  Glebe- 
shire  is  blown  away — fields  and  houses,  roads  and  rivers. 
You  must  go  and  live  in  Yorkshire.  Glebeshire  cares  for 
you  no  longer !" 

"THEY'RE  TO  WAIT  A  YEAR,  FATHER  SAYS  I"  shouted 
Millie. 

Aunt  Sarah  shook  her  white-plumed  head  and  snorted: 

"Katherine!     Engaged!     To  a  Stranger!     Impossible!" 

Aunt  Aggie  was  conscious,  at  the  moment,  of  nothing  ex- 
cept that  she  herself  had  been  defeated.  They  had  tricked 
her,  those  two.  They  had  eluded  her  vigilance.  „  „  .  They 
were  now,  in  all  probability,  laughing  at  her. 

"The  last  thing  I  want  to  do,"  she  said,  "is  to  blame 
anybody,  but  if  I'd  been  listened  to  at  the  beginning,  Mr. 
Mark  would  never  have  been  asked  to  stay.  .  .  <>  It  was 
thoughtless  of  George.  ~Now  we  can  all  see — " 

But  Millie,  standing  before  them  all,  her  face  flushed, 
said: 

"The  chief  thing  is  to  consider  Katherine's  happiness. 
Mr.  Mark  is  probably  delightful.  She  was  sure  to  marry 
somebody.  How  can  people  help  falling  in  love  with  Kath- 
erine? We  all  love  her.  She  loves  us.  I  don't  see  what 
Mr.  Mark  can  do  to  prevent  that — and  he  won't  want  to. 
He  must  be  nice  if  Katherine  loves  him !" 

But  the  final  word  was  spoken  by  Grandfather  Trenchard, 
who  had  been  hitherto  utterly  silent.  In  his  clear,  silvery 
voice  he  said: 

"A  great  deal  can  happen  in  a  year !" 

At  that  moment  Katherine  and  her  mother  oaine  in. 


BOOK  II 
THE  FEATHER  BED 


CHAPTEE  I 

KATHEKINE    IN    LOVE 

KATHERINE  TRENCHARD,  although  she  had,  for  a 
number  of  years  now,  gone  about  the  world  with  open 
eyes  and  an  understanding  heart,  was,  in  very  many  ways, 
absurdly  old-fashioned.  I  say  "absurd"  because  many  peo- 
ple, from  amongst  her  own  Trenchard  relations,  thought  her 
prejudices,  simplicities,  and  confidences  absurd,  and  hoped 
that  she  would  grow  out  of  them.  The  two  people  who  really 
knew  her,  her  Uncle  Timothy  and  Rachel  Seddon,  hoped 
that  she  never  would.  Her  "old-fashioned"  habits  of  mind 
led  her  to  believe  in  "people"  in  "things"  and  in  "causes", 
and  it  was  her  misfortune  that  up  to  this  year  of  which  I  am 
speaking  she  had  never  been  disappointed.  That  may  be 
because  she  had  grown  up  amongst  the  rocks,  the  fields,  the 
lanes  of  Glebeshire,  true  ground  where  sincerity  and  truth 
flourish  yet  in  abundance — moreover  it  is  assured  that  man 
lives  up  to  the  qualities  with  which  he  is  by  his  friends 
credited,  and  all  the  Trenchard  family  lived  up  to  Kather- 
ine's  belief  in  their  word  of  honour. 

She  was  not  so  simple  a  character  that  she  found  the 
world  perfect,  but  she  was  in  no  way  subtle,  and,  because  she 
herself  acted  in  her  faults  and  virtues,  her  impetuosities  and 
repentances,  her  dislikes  and  affections  with  clear-hearted 
simplicity,  she  believed  that  other  persons  did  the  same. 
Her  love  for  her  mother  was  of  this  quite  unquestioning 
sort;  her  religion  too  was  perfectly  direct  and  unquestion- 
ing:  so,  then,  her  love  for  Philip.  .  .  . 

She  had  never  before  been  in  love,  nor  had  she  ever  con- 

129 


130  THE  GREEK  MIRROB 

sidered  men  very  closely  as  anything  but  visitors  or  rela- 
tions. The  force  and  power  of  the  passion  that  now  held 
her  was  utterly  removed  from  anything  that  had  ever  en- 
countered her  before,  but  she  was  a  strong  character,  and 
her  simplicity  of  outlook  helped  her.  Philip  seemed  to  her 
to  be  possessed  of  all  the  qualities  of  the  perfect  hero.  His 
cleverness,  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  his  humour  were 
only  balanced  by  his  kindness  to  everyone  and  everything, , 
his  unselfishness,  his  honesty  of  speech  and  eye.  She  had 
thought  him,  once,  a  little  weak  in  his  anxiety  to  be  liked 
by  all  the  world,  but  now  that  was  forgotten.  He  was,  dur- 
ing these  days,  a  perfect  character. 

She  had  not,  however,  lost  her  clear-sighted  sense  of 
humour;  that  humour  was  almost  cynical  sometimes  in  its 
sharp  perception  of  people  and  things,  and  did  not  seem 
to  belong  to  the  rest  of  Katherine  at  all.  It  was  driven 
more  often  upon  herself  than  upon  anyone  else,  but  it  was, 
for  a  character  of  Katherine's  simplicity,  strangely  sharp. 
A  fair  field  for  the  employment  of  it  was  offered  to  her  just 
now  in  the  various  attitudes  and  dispositions  of  her  own 
immediate  family,  but,  as  yet,  she  was  unable  to  see  the 
family  at  all,  so  blinding  was  Philip's  radiance. 

That  year  England  enjoyed  one  of  the  old  romantic 
Christmases.  There  were  sparkling  dazzling  frosts.  The 
snow  lay  hard  and  shining  under  skies  of  unchanging  blue, 
and  on  Christmas  Eve,  when  the  traffic  and  smoke  of  the 
town  had  stolen  the  purity  away,  more  snow  fell  and  re- 
stored it  again. 

It  had  always  been  the  rule  that  the  Trenchards  should 
spend  Christmas  in  Glebeshire,  but,  this  year,  typhoid  fever 
had  visited  Garth  only  a  month  or  two  before,  and  London 
was  held  to  be  safer.  Katherine  had  not  had,  in  her  life, 
so  many  entertainments  that  she  could  afford  to  be  blase 
about  them,  and  she  still  thought  a  Pantomime  splendid, 
"The  Only  Way"  certainly  the  most  magnificent  play  in 
the  world,  and  a  dance  a  thing  of  perfect  rapture,  if  only 


KATHERINE  IN  LOVE  131 

she  could  be  more  secure  about  tbe  right  shapes  and  colours 
of  her  clothes.  She  had  no  vanity  whatever — indeed  a  little 
more  would  have  helped  her  judgment:  she  never  knew 
whether  a  dress  would  suit  her,  nor  why  it  was  that  one 
thing  "looked  right"  and  another  thing  "looked  wrong". 
Millie  could  have  helped  her,  because  Millie  knew  all  about 
clothes,  but  it  was  always  a  case  with  Katherine  of  some- 
thing else  coming  first,  of  having  to  dress  at  the  last  minute, 
of  "putting  on  any  old  thing  because  there  was  no  time." 

Now,  however,  there  was  Philip  to  dress  for,  and  she  did 
really  try.  She  went  to  Millie's  dressmaker  with  Millie  as 
her  guide,  but  unfortunately  Mrs.  Trenchard,  who  had  as 
little  idea  about  dress  as  Katherine,  insisted  on  coming  too, 
and  confused  everyone  by  her  introduction  of  personal  mo- 
tives and  religious  dogmas  into  something  that  should  have 
been  simply  a  matter  of  ribbons  and  bows.  Katherine,  in- 
deed, was  too  happy  to  care.  Philip  loved  her  in  any  old 
thing,  the  truth  being  that  when  he  went  about  with  her, 
he  saw  very  little  except  his  own  happiness.  .  .  . 

It  is  certainly  a  fact  that  during  these  weeks  neither  of 
them  saw  the  family  at  all. 

Rachel  Seddon  was  the  first  person  of  the  outside  world 
to  whom  Katherine  told  the  news. 

"So  that  was  the  matter  with  you  that  day  when  you 
came  to  see  me!"  she  cried. 

"What  day?"  said  Katherine. 

"You'd  been  frightened  in  the  Park,  thought  someone 
was  going  to  drop  a  bag  over  your  head,  and  ran  in 
here  for  safety." 

"I  shall  always  run  in  here  for  safety,"  said  Katherine 
gravely.  Rachel  came,  in  Katherine's  heart,  in  the  place 
next  to  Mrs.  Trenchard  and  Philip.  Katherine  had  always 
told  Rachel  everything  until  that  day  of  which  Rachel  had 
just  spoken.  There  had  been  reticence  then,  there  would  be 
reticences  always  now. 


132  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"You  will  bring  him  very  quickly  to  see  me?"  said 
Rachel. 

"I  will  bring  him  at  once,"  answered  Katherine. 

Rachel  had  liked  Philip  when  she  met  him  at  the 
Trenchards;  now,  when  he  came  to  call,  she  found  that  she 
did  not  get  on  with  him.  He  seemed  to  be  suspicious  of 
her:  he  was  awkward  and  restrained.  His  very  youthful 
desire  to  make  the  person  he  was  with  like  him,  seemed 
now  to  give  way  to  an  almost  truculent  surliness.  "I  don't 
care  whether  you  like  me  or  not,"  he  seemed  to  say. 
"Katherine's  mine  and  not  yours  any  longer." 

Neither  Philip  nor  Rachel  told  Katherine  that  they  did 
not  like  one  another.  Roddy  Seddon,  Rachel's  husband,  on 
the  other  hand,  iked  Philip  very  much.  Lying  for  many 
years  on  his  back  had  given  him  a  preference  for  visitors 
who  talked  readily  and  gaily,  who  could  tell  him  about 
foreign  countries,  who  did  not  too  obviously  pity  him  for 
being  "out  of  the  running,  poor  beggar." 

"You  don't  like  tho  teller?"  Roddy  said  to  his  wife. 

"He  doesn't  like  me,"  said  Rachel. 

"Rot,"  said  Roddy.  "You're  both  jealous.  You  both 
want  Katherine." 

"I  shan't  be  jealous,"  answered  Rachel,  "if  he's  good 
enough  for  her — if  he  makes  her  happy." 

"He  seems  to  me  a  very  decent  sort  of  feller,"  said  Roddy. 

Meanwhile  Rachel  adored  Katherine's  happiness.  She 
had  chafed  for  many  years  now  at  what  she  considered  was 
the  Trenchards'  ruthless  sacrifice  of  Katherine  to  their  own 
selfish  needs. 

"They're  never  going  to  let  her  have  any  life  of  her  own," 
she  said.  Now  Katherine  had  a  life  of  her  own,  and  if  only 
that  might  continue  Rachel  would  ask  no  more.  Rachel  had 
had  her  own  agonies  and  disciplines  in  the  past,  and  they 
had  left  their  mark  upon  her.  She  loved  her  husband  and 
her  child,  and  her  life  was  sufficiently  filled  with  their  de- 
mands upon  her,  but  she  was  apprehensive  of  happiness — 


KATHERINE  IN  LOVE  133 

she  saw  the  Gods  taking  away  with  one  hand  whifot  they  gave 
with  the  other. 

"I  knew  more  about  the  world  at  ten,"  she  thought,  "than 
Katherine  will  ever  know.  If  she's  hurt,  it  will  be  far  worse 
for  her  than  it  ever  was  for  me." 

Although  she  delighted  in  Katherine's  happiness,  she 
trembled  at  the  utter  absorption  of  it.  "We  aren't  meant 
to  trust  anything  so  much,"  she  thought,  "as  Catherine 
trusts  his  love  for  her." 

Katherine,  perhaps  because  she  trusted  so  absolutely,  did 
not  au  present  ask  Philip  any  questions.  They  talked  very 
little.  They  walked,  they  rode  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses, 
they  went  to  the  Zoo  and  Madame  Tussaud's  and  the  Tower, 
they  had  tea  at  the  Carlton  Restaurant  and  lunch  in  Soho, 
they  went  to  the  Winter  Exhibition  at  Burlington  House, 
and  heard  a  famous  novelist  give  P.  portentous  lecture  on 
the  novel  at  the  "Times"  Book  Club.  They  were  taken  to 
a  solemn  evening  at  the  Poets'  Club,  where  ladies  in  evening 
dress  read  their  own  poetry,  they  went  to  a  performance 
given  by  the  Stage  Society,  and  a  tea-party  given  by  four 
lady  novelists  at  the  Lyceum  Club:  old  Lady  Carloes,  who 
liked  Katherine,  chaperoned  her  to  certain  smart  dances, 
whither  Philip  also  was  invited,  and,  upon  two  glorious  oc- 
casions, they  shared  a  box  with  her  at  a  winter  season  of 
German  Opera  at  Covent  Garden.  They  saw  the  Drury 
Lane  pantomime  and  Mr.  Martin  Harvey  and  one  of  Mr. 
Hall  Caine's  melodramas  and  a  very  interesting  play  by  Sir 
Arthur  (then  Mr.)  Pinero.  They  saw  the  King  driving 
out  in  his  carriage  and  the  Queen  driving  out  in  hers. 

It  was  a  wild  and  delirious  time.  Katherine  had  always 
had  too  many  duties  at  home  to  consider  London  very  thor- 
oughly, and  Philip  had  been  away  for  so  long  that  every- 
thing in  London  was  exciting  to  him.  They  spoke  very 
little;  they  went,  with  their  eyes  wide  open,  their  hearts 
beating  very  loudly,  side  by  side,  up  and  down  the  town, 


134  THE  GREEtf  MIRROR 

and  the  town  smiled  upon  them  because  they  were  so  young, 
so  happy,  and  so  absurdly  confident. 

Katherine  was  confident  because  she  could  see  no  reason 
for  being  otherwise.  She  knew  that  it  sometimes  happened 
that  married  people  did  not  get  on  well  together,  but  it  v/as 
ridiculous  to  suppose  that  that  could  be  the  case  with  herself 
and  Philip.  She  knew  that,  just  at  present,  some  members 
of  her  family  did  not  care  very  greatly  for  Philip,  but  that 
was  because  they  did  not  know  him.  She  knew  that  a  year 
seemed  a  long  time  to  wait,  but  it  was  a  very  short  period 
compared  with  a  whole  married  lifetime.  How  anyone  so 
clever,  so  fine  of  soul,  so  wise  in  his  knowledge  of  men  and 
things  could  come  to  love  anyone  so  ordinary  as  herself 
she  did  not  know — but  that  had  been  in  God's  hands,  and 
she  left  it  there. 

There  was  a  thing  that  began  now  to  happen  to  Katherine 
of  which  she  herself  was  only  very  dimly  perceptive.  She 
began  to  be  aware  of  the  living,  actual  participation  in  her 
life  of  the  outside,  abstract  world.  It  was  simply  this — that, 
because  so  wonderful  an  event  had  transformed  her  own 
history,  so  also  to  everyone  whom  she  saw,  she  felt  that  some- 
thing wonderful  must  have  happened.  It  came  to  more  than 
this;  she  began  now  to  be  aware  of  London  as  something 
alive  and  perceptive  in  the  very  heart  of  its  bricks  and 
mortar,  something  that  knew  exactly  her  history  and  was 
watching  to  see  what  would  come  of  it.  She  had  always 
been  concerned  in  the  fortunes  of  those  immediately  about 
her — in  the  villages  of  Garth,  in  all  her  Trenchard  relations 
— but  they  had  filled  her  world.  Now  she  could  not  go  out 
of  the  Westminster  house  without  wondering — about  the 
two  old  maids  in  black  bonnets  who  walked  up  and  down 
Barton  Street,  about  a  tall  gentleman  with  mutton-chop 
whiskers  and  a  white  bow,  whom  she  often  saw  in  Dean's 
Yard,  about  a  large  woman  with  a  tiny  dog  and  painted 
eyebrows,  about  the  young  man  with  the  bread,  the  young 
man  with  the  milk,  the  very  trim  young  man  with  the  post, 


KATHEEINE  IN  LOVE  135 

the  very  fat  young  man  with  the  butcher's  cart,  the  two 
smart  nursemaids  with  the  babies  of  the  idle  rich,  who 
were  always  together  and  deep  in  whispered  conversation; 
the  policeman  at  the  right  corner  of  the  Square,  who  was 
friendly  and  human,  and  the  policeman  at  the  left  corner 
who  was  not ;  the  two  young  men  in  perfect  attire  and 
attache  cases  who  always  lounged  down  Barton  Street  about 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening  with  scorn  for  all  the  world  at 
the  corners  of  their  mouths,  the  old  man  with  a  brown  muf- 
fler who  sold  boot  laces  at  the  corner  of  Barton  Street,  and 
the  family  with  the  barrel-organ  who  came  on  Friday  morn- 
ings (man  once  been  a  soldier,  woman  pink  shawl,  baby  in 
a  basket),  a  thick-set,  grave  gentleman  who  must  be  some- 
body's butler,  because  his  white  shirt  was  so  stiff  and  his 
cheeks  blue-black  from  shaving  BO  often,  a  young  man  al- 
ways in  a  hurry  and  so  untidy  that,  until  he  came  close  to 
her,  Katherine  thought  he  must  be  Henry  ...  all  those 
figures  she  had  known  for  years  and  years,  but  they  had 
been  only  figures,  they  had  helped  to  make  the  pattern  in 
the  carpet,  shapes  and  splashes  of  colour  against  the  grey. 

Now  they  were  suddenly  alive!  They  had,  they  must 
have,  histories,  secrets,  triumphs,  defeats  of  a  most  thrilling 
order !  She  would  like  to  have  told  them  of  her  own  amaz- 
ing, stupendous  circumstances,  and  then  to  have  invited  their 
confidences.  The  world  that  had  held  before  some  fifty  or 
sixty  lives  pulsated  now  with  millions.  But  there  was  more 
than  that  before  her.  Whereas  she  had  always,  because  she 
loved  it,  given  to  Garth  and  the  country  around  it  a  con- 
scious, individual  existence,  London  had  been  to  her  simply 
four  walls  with  a  fire  and  a  window.  From  the  fire  there 
came  heat,  from  the  window  a  view,  but  the  heat  and  the 
view  were  made  by  man  for  man's  convenience.  Had  man 
not  been,  London  was  not.  .  .  .  Garth  had  breathed  and 
stormed,  threatened  and  loved  before  Man's  spirit  had  been 
created. 

Now,  although  as  yet  she  did  not  recognise  it,  she  began 


136  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

to  be  aware  of  London's  presence — as  though  from  some 
hidden  corner,  from  long  ago  some  stranger  had  watched 
her;  now,  because  the  room  was  lit,  he  was  revealed  to  her. 
She  was  not,  as  yet,  at  all  frightened  by  her  knowledge,  but 
even  in  quiet  Westminster  there  were  doorways,  street 
corners,  trees,  windows,  chimneys,  houses,  set  and  square 
and  silent,  that  perceived  her  coming  and  going — "Turn — 
te  turn— Tat— Tat— Tat  .  .  .  Tat— Tat— Tat— Turn— te 
— turn.  .  .  . 

"We  know  all  about  it,  Katherine  Trenchard — We  know 
what's  going  to  happen  to  you,  but  we  can't  tell  you — We're 
older  and  wiser,  much  older  and  much,  much  wiser  than 
you  are— Tat— Tat— Tat.  .  .  ." 

She  was  so  happy  that  London  could  not  at  present  dis- 
turb her,  but  when  the  sun  was  suddenly  caught  behind 
black  clouds,  when  a  whirr  of  rain  came  slashing  down  from 
nowhere  at  all,  when  a  fog  caught  with  its  yellow  hand  Lon- 
don's throat  and  squeezed  it,  when  gusts  of  dust  rose  from 
the  streets  in  little  clouds  as  though  the  horses  were  kick- 
ing their  feet,  when  a  wind,  colder  than  snow  came,  blow- 
ing from  nowhere,  on  a  warm  day,  Katherine  needed  Philip, 
clung  to  him,  begged  him  not  to  leave  her  .  .  .  she  had 
never,  in  all  her  life,  clung  to  anyone  before. 

But  this  remains  that,  during  these  weeks,  she  found  him 
perfect  She  liked  nothing  better  than  his  half-serious,  half- 
humorous  sallies  at  himself.  "You've  got  to  buck  me  up, 
Katherine — keep  me  from  flopping  about,  you  know.  Until 
I  met  you  no  one  had  any  real  influence  on  me — never  in 
all  my  days.  Now  you  can  do  anything  with  me.  Tell 
me  when  I  do  anything  hateful,  and  scold  me  as  often  as 
you  can.  Look  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  Aunt  Aggie  if  you 
can — she  sees  me  without  any  false  colouring.  I'm  not  a 
hero — far  from  it — but  I  can  be  anything  if  you  love  me 
enough." 

"Love  him  enough!"  Had  anyone  over  loved  anyone  be- 
fore as  she  loved  him?  She  was  not,  to  any  ordinary  ob- 


KATHERINE  IN  LOVE  137 

server,  very  greatly  changed.  Quietly  and  with  all  the 
matter-of-fact  half-serious,  half-humorous  common-sense  she 
went  about  her  ordinary  daily  affairs.  Young  Seymour 
came  to  tea,  and  she  laughed  at  him,  gave  him  teacake,  and 
asked  him  about  the  latest  novel  just  as  she  had  always  done. 
Mr.  Seymour  had  come  expecting  to  see  love's  candle  lit 
for  the  benefit  of  his  own  especial  genius.  He  was  greatly 
disappointed,  but  also,  because  he  hated  Mark,  gratified. 
"I  don't  believe  she  loves  him  a  bit,"  he  said  afterwards. 
"He  came  in  while  I  was  there,  and  she  didn't  colour  up  or 
anything.  Didn't  show  anything,  and  I'm  pretty  observant 
She  doesn't  love  him,  and  I'm  jolly  glad — I  can't  stand  the 
man." 

But  those  who  were  near  her  knew.  They  felt  the  heat, 
they  watched  the  colour,  of  the  pure,  unfaltering  flame.  Old 
Trenchard,  the  Aunts,  Millie,  Henry,  her  mother,  even 
George  Trenchard  felt  it.  "I  always  knew,"  said  Millie, 
"that  when  love  came  to  Katherine  it  would  be  terrible". 
She  wrote  that  in  a  diary  that  she  kept. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said  nothing  at  all.  During  those  weeks 
Katherine  was,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  unaware  of 
her  mother. 

The  afternoon  of  the  Christmas  Eve  of  that  year  was 
never  afterwards  forgotten  by  Katherine.  She  had  been  buy- 
ing last  desperate  additions  to  Christmas  presents,  had 
fought  in  the  shops  and  been  victorious ;  then,  seeing  through 
the  early  dusk  the  lights  of  the  Abbey,  she  slipped  in  at  the 
great  door,  found  a  seat  near  the  back  of  the  nave,  and  re- 
membered that  always,  at  this  hour,  on  Christmas  Eve,  a 
Carol  Service  was  held.  The  service  had  not  yet  begun, 
and  a  hush,  with  strange  rhythms  and  pulsations  in  it,  as 
though  some  phantom  conductor  were  leading  a  phantom 
orchestra,  filled  the  huge  space.  A  flood  of  people,  dim  and 
very  silent,  spread  from  wall  to  wall.  Far  away,  candles 
fluttered,  trembled  and  flung  strange  lights  into  the  web  of 
shadow  that  seemed  to  swing  and  stir  as  though  driven  by 


138  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

some  wind.  Katherine  sank  into  a  happy,  dreamy  bewilder- 
ment. The  heat  of  the  building  after  the  cold,  frosty  air, 
some  old  scent  of  candles  and  tombstones  and  ancient  walls, 
the  consciousness  of  utter,  perfect  happiness  carried  her  into 
a  state  that  was  half  dream,  half  reality.  She  closed  her 
eyes,  and  soon  the  voices  from  very  far  away  rose  and  fell 
with  that  same  phantom,  remotely  inhuman  urgency. 

A  boy's  voice  that  struck,  like  a  dart  shot  by  some  heavenly 
archer,  at  her  heart,  awoke  her.  This  was  "Good  King 
Wenceslaus".  A  delicious  pleasure  filled  her:  her  eyes 
flooded  with  tears  and  her  heart  beat  triumphantly.  "Oh ! 
how  happy  I  am !  And  I  realise  it — I  know  that  I  can  never 
be  happier  again  than  I  am  now !" 

The  carol  ceased.  After  a  time,  too  happy  for  speech, 
she  went  out. 

In  Dean's  Yard  the  snow,  with  blue  evening  shadows  upon 
it,  caught  light  from  the  sheets  of  stars  that  tossed  and 
twinkled,  stirred  and  were  suddenly  immovable.  The  Christ- 
mas bells  were  ringing:  all  the  lights  of  the  houses  in  the 
Yard  gathered  about  her  and  protected  her.  What  stars 
there  were !  What  beauty !  What  silence ! 

She  stood,  for  a  moment,  taking  it  in,  then,  with  a  little 
shiver  of  delight,  turned  homewards. 


CHAPTER  II 

MES.  TBENCHABD 

MILLIE,  like  many  of  the  Trenchard  ladies  before  her, 
kept  a  diary.  She  had  kept  it  now  for  three  years, 
and  it  had  not  during  that  time,  like  the  diaries  of  other 
young  ladies,  died  many  deaths  and  suffered  many  resur- 
rections, but  had  continued  with  the  utmost  regularity  and 
discipline.  This  regularity  finds  its  explanation  in  the  fact, 
that  Millie  really  was  interested  in  other  people  as  well  as 
in  herself,  was  sometimes  surprised  at  her  cleverness  and  in 
turn  suspicious  of  it — in  fact,  she  knew  as  much  about  the 
world  as  most  girls  of  eighteen  who  have  been  "finished"  in 
Paris:  she  thought  that  she  knew  more  than  she  did,  and 
was  perfectly  determined  to  know  a  great  deal  more  than 
she  thought  she  knew. 

These  were  some  entries : 

"Dec.  6th.  Tried  on  the  new  white  silk,  but  it  won't 
do  even  now — too  tight  and  makes  me  skimpy — Refused  to 
let  mother  come  with  me  this  time.  Took  Aunt  Betty  in- 
stead, and  we  saw  a  peach  of  a  hat  at  Renee's  which  I'd  give 
my  eyes  for,  only  of  course  I  haven't  got  the  money  now  with 
Christmas  coming  and  everything.  Aunt  Betty  said  it  was 
much  better  wanting  things  you  can't  have,  because  then 
you  go  on  being  excited,  but  that's  of  course  absurd  and  just 
like  Aunt  Betty. 

Bought  Aunt  Aggie  a  calendar-blotter  thing  for  Christmas 
which  she  won't  like  (blue  leather  with  silver  corners)  but  I 
can't  help  it.  I'm  sick  of  thinking  what  to  get  her,  and  she 
won't  be  contented  whatever  it  is.  Meanwhile,  in  the  after- 

139 


140  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

noon:  the  sensation  of  a  lifetime — All  sitting  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, waiting  for  tea.  When  in  bursts  Henry  with  the 
wild  news  that  Katie's  engaged  herself  to  Philip  Mark.  We 
all  turned  blue — I'd  like  to  have  been  someone  outside  and 
seen  us.  No  one  had  really  suspected  it.  I  hadn't  myself — 
although  one  might  have,  I  suppose,  if  one  had  watched 
more  closely.  It's  very  exciting,  and  if  Katie's  happy  I  don't 
care  about  anything  else.  At  least  I  do.  It  was  so  lovely 
coming  back  from  Paris  and  having  her  all  to  oneself.  We 
understand  one  another  so  much  better  than  any  of  the  others 
do.  I'm  the  only  one  in  the  family  who  really  knows  her.  I 
never  thought  of  her  as  being  married,  which  was  silly,  I 
suppose.  It's  funny  to  think  of  her  liking  a  man,  whom  she's 
only  just  seen,  better  than  all  of  us.  It  wouldn't  be  funny 
with  most  people,  but  Katherine's  so  quiet  and  so  steady. 
It  all  depends  on  what  he's  like.  Finished  'La  Faute  de 
1'abbe  Mouret'.  Loved  it.  Downstairs  I'm  reading  'Sesame 
and  Lilies' — well-written  but  awfully  silly. 

Dec.  9th.  Dreary  day  buying  presents  with  mother  at 
the  Stores.  Why  she  will  go  there  I  can't  think,  and  she 
takes  it  like  a  week  on  the  Riviera  or  a  box  at  the  opera. 
She  says  nothing  about  Philip — not  a  word.  He  dined  last 
night,  and  was  most  tactful.  I  never  saw  anyone  so  de- 
termined to  make  us  all  devoted  to  him,  but  he's  got  a 
difficult  business  with  Aunt  Aggie  and  mother.  I  like  him, 
and  have  a  kind  of  idea  that  I  understand  him  better  than 
any  of  the  others  do.  He's  certainly  not  the  God  that  Kath- 
erine  thinks  him — and  he  knows  ho  isn't.  He's  a  little 
uncomfortable  about  it,  I  think.  He's  certainly  very  much 
in  love  with  her.  Letter  from  Louise  Pouge — She's  engaged 
— to  no  one  very  particular.  She's  younger  than  I  am — and 
prettier — lots. 

Spoke  to  Henry  about  clean  handkerchiefs.  He's  really 
incredible  at  his  age.  Philip  seems  to  influence  him  though. 
That  may  do  something. 

Dec.  13th.    Dismal  day.    Out  of  sorts  and  cross.    Dread- 


MKS.  TKENCHARD  141 

fully  restless.  I  don't  know  why.  It's  all  wrong  this  Christ- 
mas, not  being  down  at  Garth  and  Katherine  so  occupied. 
On  days  like  these  I  have  terrible  scruples  about  myself.  I 
suppose  I  am  terribly  conceited  really — and  yet  I  don't 
know.  There  are  plenty  of  people  I  admire  ever  so  much 
more  than  myself.  I  suppose  it's  seeing  Katherine  so  happy 
that  makes  me  restless.  It  must  be  nice  to  have  anyone  as 
devoted  as  that  to  you.  .  .  .  I've  always  been  very  cynical 
about  being  in  love,  but  when  one  watches  it,  quite  close, 
with  anyone  as  good  as  Katherine  .  .  .  anyway  it's  been  a 
beastly  day,  and  Aunt  Aggie  went  on  like  an  old  crow  at 
dinner.  I  wish  I  knew  what  mother  was  feeling  about  it 
all — she's  so  quiet. 

Dec.  17th.  Had  a  long  talk  with  Philip  this  evening. 
I  must  say  I  liked  him — he  was  so  modest  about  himself.  He 
said  that  he  wished  he  were  a  little  more  as  Katherine  thinks 
he  is,  and  that  he's  going  to  try  to  be.  I  said  that's  all  right 
so  long  as  he  made  Katherine  happy  and  didn't  take  her 
right  away  from  us  all.  He  said  that  he  would  do  any- 
thing to  make  mother  like  him,  and  did  I  think  that  she 
liked  him  better  now  ?  I  said  that  I  was  sure  that  she  did — 
but  I'm  not  sure  really.  It's  impossible  to  know  what 
mother  thinks.  Katherine  came  in  whilst  we  were  talking. 
Afterwards,  I  don't  know  why,  I  felt  afraid  somehow. 
Katie's  so  sure.  I  know  I'd  never  be  sure  of  anybody,  least 
of  all  anyone  in  love  with  me.  But  then  I  know  so  much 
more  about  men  than  Katie  does.  And  I'm  sure  Philip 
knows  lots  more  about  women  than  Katie  thinks.  Katie  and 
mother  are  so  alike  in  some  ways.  They're  both  as  obstinate 
as  anything.  Such  a  lovely  afternoon  out  with  the  Swin- 
tons — Snow  in  the  Green  Park,  sparkling  all  over  and  the 
air  like  after  you've  eaten  peppermints.  Lady  Perrot  asked 
me  to  go  with  them  to  New  Year's  supper  at  the  Savoy. 
Hope  I'll  be  allowed. 

Dec.  23rd.  Had  a  walk  with  Katie — first  walk  had  alone 
since  her  engagement.  She  was  so  happy  that  she  was  almost 


142  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

— a  beastly  word — frisky.  Katie  frisky !  "We're  miles  away 
from  one  another  just  now,  and  that's  the  truth.  I  suppose 
one  must  simply  wait  until  this  period's  passed  away.  But 
supposing  it  never  passes  away?  Supposing  she  disappears 
altogether — from  all  of  us.  At  any  rate,  what  can  one  say  ? 
I  like  Philip,  and  can  honestly  say  so,  but  I  don't  think  him 
the  angel  Gabriel.  Not  that  Katie  at  present  cares,  in  the 
least,  what  one  thinks — she  doesn't  wait  to  hear.  She  is 
making  no  plans,  thinking  of  no  possible  future,  imagining 
nothing.  She  never  had  any  imagination,  or  at  any  rate 
never  used  it.  Perhaps  she'll  get  some  now  from  Philip, 
who  has  plenty — far  too  much.  It's  his  trouble,  I  believe 
that  he's  always  imagining  something  a  little  better  than 
he's  got.  .  .  .  We  Trenchards  have  none.  I  haven't  any 
really — it's  only  curiosity.  Henry  and  I  might  have  some 
if  we  were  all  very  uncomfortable.  But  of  course  the  whole 
family  only  keeps  together  because  it  can't  imagine  things 
being  different.  Are  things  going  to  be  different  now  ?  .  .  . 
Rachel  Seddon  came  to  tea.  Don't  like  her.  Thinks  she 
owns  Katie — and  Katie's  let  her.  Went  with  the  Aunts  to 
the  Messiah.  Very  long,  with  nice  bits.  Aunt  Aggie  had  a 
crick  in  the  neck,  and  wriggled  all  the  time.  Hope  I  get 
some  money  on  Christmas  Day  or  I  shall  be  in  an  awful 
hole. 

Dec.  26^.  Two  pounds  from  father,  one  from  grand- 
father, ten  shillings  Cousin  Alice,  five  Aunt  Grace,  kettle- 
holder  Aunt  Aggie,  two  dozen  handkerchiefs  Uncle  Bob, 
fountain-pen  father,  new  hat  mother  (quite  hopeless),  photo- 
gravure 'Happy  Warrior*  Aunt  Betty,  two  books  'Reuben 
Hallard'  by  Westcott  (Mudie  second-hand)  'Rossetti's 
Poems'  from  Henry — lovely  amethyst  brooch  Katie  (dar- 
ling!) two  novels  by  Turgenieff  from  Philip — lots  of  other 
things. 

Nice  day  on  the  whole,  but  not  quite  right  somehow.  Wish 
mother  didn't  always  look  so  anxious  when  there's  a  dinner 
party.  You  always  expect  things  to  happen  wrong,  and  really 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  143 

Rocket  knows  his  business  by  this  time.  All  of  \ia  a  little 
forced,  I  think.  It  seemed  funny  not  being  at  Garth  and 
Philip  the  first  person  we've  ever  had  not  of  the  family. 
Aunt  Sarah  keeps  forgetting  who  he  is,  or  pretends  to.  I 
wish  he  didn't  make  up  to  mother  quite  so  much.  That 
isn't  the  way  to  make  her  like  him,  I  really  do  understand 
him  much  better  than  anyone  else  does — much  better  than 
Katie. 

Dec.  31s£.  Going  to  the  Savoy  party  to-night.  Hope  it  will 
be  fun.  Never  expected  mother  to  let  me,  but  she's  awfully 
sweet  to  me  lately.  She's  a  darling,  but  we're  really  always 
just  a  little  afraid  of  one  another.  Of  course  I'm  not  out 
yet,  so  I'll  have  to  be  quiet  to-night.  Mother  never  would 
have  dreamt  of  letting  me  go  six  months  back.  End  of  the 
year — made  several  resolutions.  Not  to  be  snappy,  nor 
superior,  nor  cynical,  nor  selfish.  That's  enough  for  any- 
one to  look  after!  Wonder  what  things  will  be  like  this 
year,  and  how  Katie  and  Philip  will  turn  out.  Feel  as 
though  things  will  all  go  wrong,  and  yet  I  don't  know  why. 
Bought  the  hat  I  saw  a  fortnight  ago.  Finished  'House  of 
Gentlefolks'.  Adored  it.  Discussed  it  with  Philip.  Going 
to  get  all  the  other  Turgenieffs.  Think  Russia  must  be  a 
wonderful  country.  Time  to  dress.  I  know  I'll  just  love 
the  party.  .  .  ." 

Only  Mrs.  Trenchard  herself  could  say  whether  or  no 
she  had  enjoyed  this  Christmas.  She  displayed  the  same 
busy  placidity  as  on  other  occasions ;  of  her  fears,  disappoint- 
ments, surprises,  she  said  nothing.  The  turkey  was  a  suc- 
cess, the  plum-pudding  burnt  with  a  proper  glow,  no  one  was 
ill,  she  had  forgotten,  in  sending  out  her  parcels,  no  single 
Trenchard  relation — surely  all  was  well. 

Her  brother,  Timothy,  who  knew  her  better  than  anyone 
else  did,  had  long  abandoned  the  penetration  of  her  motives, 
aims,  regrets.  There  had  been  a  time  when  she  had  been 
almost  intimate  with  him,  then  something  (he  never  knew 


THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

what)  had  driven  her  in  more  obstinately  than  ever  upon 
herself.  Something  he  had  said.  .  .  .  He  could  point  almost 
exactly  to  the  day  and  hour.  She  had  been  a  stranger  to  him 
from  that  moment. 

Her  history  was,  however,  very  simple. 

When  she  had  been  a  very,  very  small  child  she  had  de- 
cided for  herself  that  the  way  to  give  life  a  real  value  was  to 
fix  one's  affection  upon  someone :  perhaps  there  had  been  also 
the  fear  of  life  as  a  motive,  the  discovery  that  the  best  way 
to  be  protected  from  all  kinds  of  perils  was  to  be  so  fond  of 
someone  that  nothing  else  mattered.  With  a  quiet,  unde- 
monstrative but  absolutely  tenacious  hold  she  attached  herself 
to  her  nurse,  who  deserted  her  on  the  appearance  of  a  younger 
sister,  to  her  mother,  who  died,  to  her  father,  who  was  always 
so  busy  that  loving  him  was  like  being  devoted  to  a  blotting 
pad.  When  she  was  ten  years  of  age  she  went  to  school,  and 
clung  to  a  succession  of  older  girls,  who,  however,  found, 
in  her  lack  of  all  demonstrations,  her  almost  cynical  remarks, 
her  inability  to  give  any  expression  whatever  to  her  emotions, 
something,  at  first,  terrifying,  and  afterwards  merely  tire- 
some. 

When  she  was  about  eighteen  she  discovered  that  the  per- 
son to  whom  a  woman  should  be  properly  attached  was  her 
husband.  She  waited  then  very  calmly  until  she  was  twenty, 
when  George  Trenchard  appeared,  proposed  to  her,  and  was 
accepted.  She  took  it  so  utterly  for  granted  that  her  devo- 
tion to  him  would  fill  sufficiently  the  energy  of  her  remaining 
days  that  it  wasn't  until  the  end  of  a  year  of  married  life  that 
she  discovered  that,  although  he  liked  her  very  much,  ho  could 
do  quite  beautifully  without  her,  and  did,  indeed,  for  three- 
quarters  of  every  day  forget  her  altogether.  No  one,  except 
herself,  knew  whether  that  discover}'  hurt  her.  She,  of  course, 
said  nothing  to  anyone  about  it.  She  waited  for  the  arrival 
of  her  children.  Katherine,  Henry  and  Mildred  came,  and 
at  last  it  seemed  that  Mrs.  Trenchard's  ship  had  come  into 
port.  During  their  early  years,  at  any  rate,  they  clung  to 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  145 

her  tenaciously,  did  not  in  the  least  mind  that  she  had  noth- 
ing to  say  to  them:  they  found  her  sure  and  safe  and,  best 
of  all  possible  things  in  a  parent,  always  the  same.  It  was 
when  Katherine  was  six  years  old  that  Timothy  said  to  her 
one  day: 

"Look  here,  Harriet,  don't  get  so  wrapt  in  the  children 
that  you'll  never  be  able  to  unwrap  yourself  again.  I've  seen 
it  happen  dozens  of  times,  and  it  always  gives  endless  trouble 
later  on.  It's  all  very  well  now,  but  the  time  will  come  when 
they'll  break  away — it  must  come,  and  you'll  suffer  horribly 
unless  you're  ready  for  it.  I'm  not  married  myself,  it's  true, 
but  I  see  all  the  more  for  that  very  reason." 

This  was  the  speech  that  severed  Mrs.  Trenchard  from 
her  brother.  She  never  forgot  nor  forgave  it.  She  never 
forgave  it  because  she  could  not  forget  it :  his  words  were  to 
haunt  her  from  the  moment  of  their  utterance  until  the  last 
conscious  instant  of  her  life.  She  had  been  born  entirely 
without  imagination,  but  she  had  not  been  born  without  the 
wish  for  romance.  Moreover,  the  Faunder  tradition  (which 
is  the  same  as  the  Trenchard  tradition)  taught  her  to  believe 
that  there  was  something  enfeebling  and  dangerous  about 
imagination,  and  that  the  more  one  thought  about  things  not 
immediately  within  sight  the  less  likely  one  was  to  do  one's 
daily  task  with  efficiency.  Her  longing  for  a  romantic  life 
therefore  (that  is  for  the  justification  of  her  own  personal 
existence)  was  assisted  by  no  private  dreams  nor  castle-build- 
ing. No  Faunder  or  Trenchard  had  ever  built  a  castle  in 
the  air  when  there  were  good  square  manors  and  vicarages 
waiting  to  be  constructed  on  good  solid  ground.  She  di- 
rected the  whole  of  her  passionate  life  towards  her  relations 
with  her  children,  but  never  even  to  herself  would  she  admit 
that  she  had  any  passionate  life  at  all.  Take  away  the  chil- 
dren and  there  was  nothing  left  for  her  except  her  religion ; 
because  the  loss  of  them  would  be  the  one  tragedy  that  would 
drive  her  to  question  the  justice  of  her  God  was  justification 
of  itself  for  her  passionate  determination. 


146  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Now  Timothy  had  said  that  she  would  lose  them — well, 
Timothy  should  see.  With  other  children,  with  other 
mothers,  it  might  be  so.  God  Himself  should  not  take  them 
from  her. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  children  grew,  the  shadows  of  his  words 
ever  pursued  her  and  hemmed  her  in.  She  watched,  with 
close  attention,  other  families,  and  saw  that  Timothy's  warn- 
ing was  justified  often  enough,  but  always  she  was  able  to 
find  for  herself  some  reason.  The  weakness  of  selfishness 
or  carelessness  of  the  parent.  Not  weak,  nor  selfish,  nor 
careless  could  any  watching  Powers,  waiting  to  pounce,  ac- 
cuse her  of  being! 

When  the  children  grew  older  she  discovered  certain  things 
about  them.  Henry  often  annoyed  her  with  his  untidiness 
and  strangely  unjustified  egotism.  He  always  thought  about 
himself,  and  yet  never  did  anything.  She  liked  Henry  least 
of  her  children. 

Mildred  was  delightful,  clever,  the  "show  child",  but  for 
that  very  reason  would  in  all  probability  be,  afterwards,  the 
most  restless  of  them.  As  the  two  girls  grew  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard  told  herself  that,  perhaps,  Millie  would  have  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, and  in  telling  herself  this  she  implied  that  if  she  would 
only,  when  the  time  came,  allow  Millie  without  a  murmur 
to  depart,  the  Gods  would  be  satisfied  with  that  and  Kath- 
erine  would  remain. 

It  came  to  this,  that  by  the  time  that  Katherine  was 
twelve  she  was  the  centre  of  her  mother's  existence.  Mil- 
dred and  Henry  would  be  held  as  long  as  it  was  possible 
to  hold  them,  but,  if  the  worst  came,  they  should  go.  Kath- 
erine would  always  remain.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  indeed  that  she  would.  She  loved  her  home, 
her  parents,  her  relations,  Glebeshire,  the  whole  of  the 
Trenchard  inheritance.  She  placed  her  mother  first  in  her 
life,  and  she  was  able  to  satisfy  the  love  in  her  mother's 
heart  without  saying  anything  about  it  or  drawing  anyone's 
attention  towards  it.  She  had  all  the  qualities  that  her 


MKS.  TRENCHARD 

mother  admired — sincerity,  trust,  common-sense,  practical 
punctuality,  moral  as  well  as  physical:  above  all,  she  took 
things  for  granted  without  asking  endless  questions,  as  was 
Henry's  unfortunate  habit.  There  grew  then  in  the  lives 
both  of  Mrs.  Trenchard  and  Katherine  a  passionate  affec- 
tion, which  was  never  allowed  by  either  of  them  to  find  out- 
ward expression.  This  became,  behind  the  commonplace 
matter-of-fact  of  all  their  days,  a  kind  of  romantic  conspiracy. 
Even  when  Katherine  was  still  a  child  Mrs.  Trenchard  knew 
that  the  hours  that  they  spent  alone  together  had  some  strange 
almost  incoherent  quality,  something  that  was  mixed,  inex- 
tricably, with  the  high  lanes,  the  grassy  lawns,  the  distant 
strip  of  sea  beyond  the  fields,  the  rooks  in  the  high  trees,  the 
smell  of  the  village  shop,  boot-laces,  liquorice,  tallow,  cheese 
and  cotton,  the  dark  attic  bedroom  of  Katherine's,  the  cries 
of  village  children  beyond  the  garden  wall,  afternoon  Sunday 
school  upon  hard  benches  under  glazed  lamps  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  harmonium ;  all  the  things  that  belonged  to 
Garth  belonged  also  to  the  love  between  Mrs.  Trenchard  and 
Katherine.  Katherine  had  been  first  taken  to  the  sea  when 
she  had  been  a  very  little  girl ;  she  had  been  shown  Rafiel  and 
the  Pirates'  Cove  with  its  cave  (too  small  for  any  but  very 
thin  pirates),  and  the  village  with  the  cottages  cut  out  of 
the  rock  and  the  sea  advancing  and  retreating  as  a  lazy  cat 
stretches  and  withdraws  its  paws  upon  the  pebbled  beach. 
Driving  home  through  the  twilight  in  the  high  dog-cart  be- 
hind the  fat  and  beloved  family  pony,  Katherine  had  been  be- 
sieged with  questions.  What  had  she  thought  of  it  all  ?  What 
had  she  liked  best  ?  Had  it  been  wonderful  ?  She  had  said 
nothing.  She  was  obstinately  silent.  At  last,  persecuted 
beyond  bearing,  she  looked,  imploringly,  at  her  mother.  Her 
eyes  had  met  her  mother's,  and,  as  complete  understanding 
passed  between  them,  it  seemed  that  they  made,  there  and 
then,  a  compact  of  mutual  help  and  protection  that  was  never 
afterwards  to  be  broken.  Mrs.  Trenchard  had  never,  never 
been  known  to  mention  scenery,  sunsets  or  buildings,  except 


148  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

for  strictly  practical  reasons.  She  would  say:  "Come  in, 
children,  you'll  catch  cold,  the  sun's  setting",  or  "I  don't 
think  we'll  have  rain  to-day.  There's  not  a  cloud",  or  "It's 
so  hot,  there's  quite  a  mist.  I  hope  there'll  be  enough  straw- 
berries and  cream  for  everyone."  That  was  her  attitude,  and 
yet  she  loved  Glebeshire,  every  stone  and  tree,  with  an  un- 
faltering and  unarguing  devotion.  She  never  said  "Glebe- 
shire  is  the  loveliest  spot  in  the  world".  But  only:  "Oh! 
you've  never  been  to  Glebeshire  ?  You  don't  know  the  Clar- 
ence Faunders  then?  They're  only  five  miles  from  us",  or 
"Yes.  We  live  in  Glebeshire — a  little  village  not  far  from 
Polchester.  We're  very  lucky  in  our  clergyman,  a  Mr.  Smart, 
one  of  the  Smarts,  etc."  Moreover,  she  never  when  she  was 
quite  alone  said  to  herself:  "Oh!  what  a  heavenly  day!"  or 
"How  lovely  the  new  leaves  are",  or  "Look  at  the  primroses !" 
She  only  said  to  herself:  "Lucy  Cartwright's  Annie  has 
got  to  have  that  ointment",  or  "I  must  tell  Rebekah  about 
the  poor  Curtises.  She  could  take  them  the  things." 

Nevertheless,  when  she  discovered  that  Katherine  cared 
for  Glebeshire  with  a  love  as  deep  as  her  own,  how  happy 
she  was!  How  firmly  that  discovery  bound  them  together! 
For  them  both  that  journey  twice  a  year  from  London  to 
Garth  was  as  exciting  as  though  they  had  never  taken  it  be- 
before.  The  stations,  whose  names  were  like  the  successive 
wrappers  that  enclose  a  splendid  present,  Rasselas,  the  little 
windy  station  where  they  changed  from  the  London  Express 
into  the  halting,  stumbling  little  train  that  carried  them  to- 
wards the  sea ;  then  Stoep  in  Roselands,  tiniest  station  of  all, 
with  the  sea  smell  blowing  across  the  dark  fields,  the  carriage 
with  its  lights  and  Jacob,  the  coachman,  the  drive  through 
the  twilight  lanes,  the  gleaming  white  gates,  the  house  itself 
and  old  Rebekah  on  the  doorstep  .  .  .  yes,  of  all  these  things 
was  the  love  between  Mrs.  Trenchard  and  her  daughter  made. 

Most  wonderful  of  all  was  it  that,  with  Katherine,  Mrs. 
Trenchard  never  knew  a  moment's  awkwardness  or  embar- 
rassment. With  everyone  else  in  the  world  and,  perhaps 


MES.  TRENCHARD  149 

especially  with  her  own  family,  Mrs.  Trenchard  was  often 
awkward  and  embarrassed,  although  no  one  but  herself  was 
aware  of  it.  Of  this  embarrassment  Mrs.  Trenchard  had  a 
horrible  dread:  it  was  to  her  as  though  she  were  suddenly 
lifted  off  her  feet  by  a  giant  hand  and  held  dangling:  she 
felt  that  all  the  world  must  see  how  her  skirts  blew  in  the 
wind.  With  Katherine  she  was  always  safe :  she  grew,  most 
urgently,  to  depend  upon  this  safety.  Then,  as  the  years 
passed  she  felt  that  she  might,  with  justice,  consider  Kath- 
erine secure.  Katherine  seemed  to  have  no  interest  in  young 
men :  already  she  adopted  a  rather  motherly  attitude  towards 
them  and,  perhaps  because  Henry  was  the  young  man  im- 
mediately before  her,  considered  them  rather  helpless,  rather 
clumsy,  rather  unwieldy  and  ungainly.  She  was  always  kind 
but  a  little  satirical  in  her  relations  to  the  other  sex:  young 
men  were,  perhaps,  afraid  of  her. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  did,  of  course,  consider  the  possibility  of 
Katherine's  marriage,  but,  if  that  ever  occurred,  it  would  be, 
she  knew,  with  someone  in  the  family,  someone  like  them- 
selves, who  would  live  near  by,  who  would  worship  Kath- 
erine but  never  interfere  with  her,  who  would  give  her 
children,  to  whom  Mrs.  Trenchard  could  be  a  delightful 
grandmother.  This  surrender  the  Gods  might  demand — it 
would  need  more  than  such  a  marriage  to  separate,  now, 
Katherine  from  her  mother.  Mrs.  Trenchard,  like  all  un- 
imaginative people,  relied  very  strongly  upon  little  facts  and 
well-accustomed  places  and  familiar  family  relations.  She 
did  not  believe  that  Victoria  Street  would  walk  away  or  that 
the  old  woman  (Mrs.  Pengello,  an  ancient  widow  with  a  pen- 
sion, two  granddaughters  and  a  cast  in  her  eye)  at  the  Garth 
post  office  would  appear  one  morning  r&  r,  radiant  young 
beauty,  or  that  her  brother  Timothy  would  go  en  to  the  music 
halls.  Her  world  was  thus  a  place  of  security,  and  Kath- 
erine was  one  of  the  most  secure  things  in  it.  "Ah !  Tim- 
othy, you're  wrong  after  all,"  she  would  sometimes,  in  the 
watches  of  the  night,  think  to  herself.  "Nothing  can  take 


150  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Katherine  from  me  now.  You  may  be  as  right  as  you  like 
about  Millie  and  Henry.  Katherine  is  enough.  .  .  ." 

She  had,  during  these  last  years,  been  wrapped  in  with  a 
strange,  placid  content :  Millie  had  been  at  school  in  Paris : 
there  was  nothing  inside  the  Trenchard  fortress  that  spoke 
of  the  outside  world.  No  secret  spirit  ever  whispered  to  Mrs. 
Trenchard:  "Are  you  not  being  selfish  in  keeping  your 
daughter  ?  You  will  die  some  day,  and  then  she  will  have  a 
lonely  old  maid's  life  when  she  might  have  been  so  happy. 
The  children's  lives  are  their  own.  What  right  have  you  to 
Katherine's  life  and  ambitions  and  love?  Would  you,  in 
your  youth,  have  given  up  your  future  for  your  parents? 
Why  should  she  ?" 

There  was  nothing  that  Mrs.  Trenchard  desired  more  than 
Katherine's  happiness.  If  Katherine  had  not  loved  her  she 
would  have  let  her  go,  but  now  .  .  .  Katherine's  life  was 
bound  up  with  hers  so  tightly  that  nothing,  nothing  could 
part  them.  .  .  . 

Then  there  came  a  night  of  fog,  a  stranger  bowing  in  the 
doorway,  and  all  the  old  days  were  dead.  Mrs.  Trenchard 
was  still  stunned,  the  fog  was  yet  about  her  eyes,  and  in  her 
heart  was  a  dread  that  had  not  yet  found  its  voice  nor  driven 
her  to  determine  what  she  would  do.  ...  Meanwhile  there 
was  no  one  in  the  world  who  knew  her.  She  did  not  know 
herself.  Until  now  there  had  been  in  her  life  no  crisis  strong 
enough  to  force  open  that  realisation. 

One  morning  early  in  January  Mrs.  Trenchard  said  to 
Katherine  at  breakfast :  "Will  you  come  to  the  Stores  with 
me  this  afternoon,  Katherine  ?  I  have  to  buy  some  hot-water 
bottles  and  one  or  two  other  things.  Two  of  them  leak  badly 
.  .  .  some  hot-water  bottles  .  .  .  and  I'd  like  you  to  help 
me." 

"I'm  lunching  with  Rachel,  mother,"  Katherine  said.  "But 
I'll  be  back  by  three  if  that's  time  enough." 

"Three  o'clock.    Very  well,  dear.    They  oughtn't  to  leak 


MKS.  TRENCHARD  151 

— we've  had  them  quite  a  short  time.  Shall  I  meet  you 
there?" 

"No.  I'll  come  back.  We  might  miss  there.  I'll  be  back 
by  three." 

At  ten  minutes  past  three  in  a  large  rather  confused  hat 
with  a  black  bird  and  white  feathers  Mrs.  Trenchard  was 
seated  waiting  in  the  drawing-room.  The  fire  had  had  coal 
poured  upon  it  by  Rocket,  and  it  was  very  black :  the  room 
was  cold  and  dark,  and  Mrs.  Trenchard,  feeling  like  an  un- 
welcome guest  in  her  own  house,  shivered.  At  twenty  min- 
utes past  three  Mrs.  Trenchard  began  to  be  afraid  that  there 
had  been  an  accident.  Katherine  was  always  so  punctual. 
Millie  came  in. 

"Dear  mother,  what  on  earth !" 

"I'm  waiting  for  Katherine.  She  was  to  be  back  at  three 
from  Rachel  Seddon's.  We  are — were — going  to  the  Stores. 
You  don't  think  there  can  have  been  an  accident  ?" 

"Katherine!  Why,  I  saw  her  twenty  minutes  ago.  I've 
just  come  back  from  Lady  Carloes.  Katie  was  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner  with  Philip." 

"Philip!" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  got  up,  took  off  one  black  glove,  then  put 
it  on  again.  She  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Will  you  come  to  the  Stores  with  me,  Millie?  I've  got 
to  get  some  hot-water  bottles  and  some  other  things.  .  .  . 
Two  of  ours  leak.  .  .  .  I'd  like  you  to  help  me." 

Millie  looked  once  at  the  clock,  and  her  mother  saw  her. 
Then  Millie  said: 

"Of  course  I  will.  We  won't  be  very  long,  will  we?" 

"Why,  no,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  who  would  have 
been  happy  to  spend  a  week  at  the  Stores  had  she  the  op- 
portunity. "Quite  a  little  time." 

They  set  off  together. 

Millie  was  not  yet  of  such  an  age  that  she  could  disguise 
her  thoughts.  She  was  wondering  about  Katherine,  and  Mrs. 
Trenchard  knew  that  this  was  so.  Mrs.  Trcnchard  always 


152  THE  GKEEN  MIKKOK 

walked  through  the  streets  of  London  as  a  trainer  in  the 
company  of  his  lions.  Anything  might  happen,  and  one's 
life  was  not  safe  for  a  moment,  but  a  calm,  resolute  de- 
meanour did  a  great  deal,  and,  if  trouble  came,  one  could 
always  use  the  whip :  the  whip  was  the  Trenchard  name.  To- 
day, however,  she  gave  no  thought  to  London :  she  was  very 
gentle  and  kind  to  Millie — almost  submissive  and  humble. 
This  made  Millie  very  uncomfortable. 

"I'm  rather  foolish  about  the  Stores,  I'm  afraid.  I  know 
several  places  where  you  can  get  better  hot-water  bottles  and 
cheaper.  But  they  know  me  at  the  Stores  now." 

Once  she  said :  "I  hope,  Millie  dear,  I'm  not  keeping  you 
from  anything.  We  shall  be  home  by  half-past  four." 

In  exchange  for  these  two  little  remarks  Millie  talked  a 
great  deal,  and  the  more  she  talked  the  more  awkward  she 
seemed.  She  was  very  unhappy  about  her  mother,  and  she 
wished  that  she  could  comfort  her,  but  she  knew  her  so  little 
and  had  been  always  on  such  careless  terms  with  her  that 
now  she  had  no  intuition  about  her. 

"What  is  she  thinking?  ...  I  know  Katherine  has  hurt 
her  terribly.  She  oughtn't  to  wear  a  hat  like  that :  it  doesn't 
suit  her  a  bit.  Why  isn't  it  /  who  have  forgotten,  and  Katie 
here  instead  to  console  her?  Only  then  she  wouldn't  want 
consolation.  .  .  ." 

As  they  walked  up  the  steps  of  the  Stores  they  were  stared 
at  by  a  number  of  little  dogs  on  chains,  who  all  seemed  to 
assert  their  triumphant  claims  on  somebody's  especial  affec- 
tions. The  little  dogs  stirred  Mrs.  Trenchard's  unhappi- 
nesa,  without  her  knowing  why.  All  down  Victoria  Street 
she  had  been  thinking  to  herself:  "Katherine  never  forgot 
before — never.  It  was  only  this  morning — if  it  had  even  been 
yesterday — but  this  morning !  Millie  doesn't  understand,  and 
she  didn't  want  to  come — Katie.  ..." 

She  walked  slowly  into  the  building,  and  was  at  once  re- 
ceived by  that  friendly,  confused  smell  of  hams  and  medicines 
which  is  the  Stores'  note  of  welcome.  Lights  shone,  warmth 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  153 

eddied  in  little  gusts  of  hot  air  from  corner  to  corner :  there 
was  much  conversation,  but  all  of  a  very  decent  kind :  ladies, 
not  very  grand  ones  and  not  very  poor  ones,  but  comfortable, 
motherly,  housekeeping  ladies  were  everywhere  to  be  seen. 

No  wonder,  surely,  that  Mrs.  Trenchard  loved  the  Stores ! 
Here  was  everything  gathered  in  from  the  ends  of  the  earth 
that  was  solid  and  sound  and  real.  Here  were  no  extrava- 
gances, no  decadencies,  no  flowing  creations  with  fair  out- 
sides  and  no  heart  to  them,  nothing  foreign  nor  degenerate. 
However  foreign  an  article  might  be  before  it  entered  the 
Stores,  once  inside  those  walls  it  adopted  itself  at  once  to  the 
claims  of  a  Cathedral  City — even  the  Eastern  carpets,  stained 
though  their  past  lives  might  be  with  memories  of  the  Harem, 
recognised  that  their  future  lay  along  the  floor  of  a  Bishop's 
study,  a  Major's  drawing-room  or  the  dining-room  of  a  coun- 
try rectory.  If  ever  Mrs.  Trenchard  was  alarmed  by  memo- 
ries of  foreign  influences,  of  German  invasions,  or  Armenian 
atrocities,  she  had  only  to  come  to  the  Stores  to  be  entirely  re- 
assured. It  would  be  better  for  our  unbalanced  and 
hysterical  alarmists  did  they  visit  the  Stores  more  fre- 
quently. .  .  . 

But  frequent  visits  had  bred  in  Mrs.  Trenchard  a  yet 
warmer  intimacy.  Although  she  had  never  put  her  feeling  into 
words,  she  was  determined  now  that  the  Stores  was  main- 
tained solely  in  the  Trenchard  and  Faunder  interests.  So 
pleasant  and  personally  submissive  had  the  young  men  and 
young  women  of  the  place  been  to  her  all  these  years,  that  she 
now  regarded  them  with  very  nearly  the  personal  benevolence 
that  she  bestowed  upon  her  own  Rebekah,  Rocket,  Jacob  and 
so  on.  She  felt  that  only  Trenchards  and  Faunders  could  have 
produced  an  organisation  whose  spirit  was  so  entirely  sprung 
from  their  own  views  and  observances.  She  did  not  defend 
or  extol  those  views.  There  simply  they  were!  and  out  of 
them  the  Stores  were  born.  She  paid  her  call  here,  there- 
fore, rather  as  a  Patroness  visits  n  Hospital  in  which  she  is 
interested — with  no  conceit  or  false  pride,  but  with  a  mater- 


154  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

nal  anxiety  that  everything  should  be  well  and  prosperous. 
Everything  always  was  well  and  prosperous.  .  .  .  She  was 
a  happy  Patroness! 

"That's  a  splendid  ham !"  were  invariably  her  first  words, 
and  "I  do  like  the  way  they  arrange  things  here,"  her  sec- 
ond. She  could  have  wandered,  very  happily,  all  day  from 
compartment  to  compartment,  stopping  continually  to  ob- 
serve, to  touch,  to  smile,  to  blow  her  nose  (being  moved,  very 
often,  quite  emotionally)  to  beam  happily  upon  the  custo- 
mers and  then  to  turn,  with  a  little  smile  of  intimacy,  to  the 
young  men  in  frock  coats  and  shiny  hair,  as  though  she  would 
say :  "We've  got  a  good  crowd  to-day.  Everyone  seems  com- 
fortable .  .  .  but  how  can  they  help  it  when  everything  is 
so  beautifully  done  ?" 

Her  chief  pride  and  happiness  found  its  ultimate  crown 
in  the  furniture  department.  Here,  hung  as  it  was  some- 
where up  aloft,  with  dark  bewildering  passages  starting  into 
infinity  on  every  side  of  it,  was  the  place  that  her  soul  truly 
loved.  She  could  gaze  all  day  upon  those  sofas  and  chairs. 
Those  wonderful  leather  couches  of  dark  red  and  dark  blue, 
so  solid,  so  stern  in  their  unrelenting  opposition  to  flighty 
half-and-half,  so  self-supporting  and  self-satisfying,  so  as- 
sured of  propriety  and  comfort  and  solid  value  for  your 
money.  She  would  sink  slowly  into  a  huge  leather  arm- 
chair, and  from  her  throne  smile  upon  the  kind  gentleman 
who  washed  his  hands  in  front  of  her. 

"And  how  much  is  this  one  ?" 

"Nine  pounds,  eight  and  sixpence,  ma'am." 

"Really.  Nine  pounds,  eight  and  sixpence.  It's  a  splen- 
did chair." 

"It  is  indeed,  ma'am.  We've  sold  more  than  two  dozen 
of  this  same  article  in  this  last  fortnight.  A  great  demand 
just  now." 

"And  so  there  ought  to  be — more  than  two  dozen !  Well, 
I'm  not  surprised — an  excellent  chair." 

"Perhaps  we  can  send  it  for  you  ?  Or  you  prefer —  ?" 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  155 

"No,  thank  you.  Not  to-day.  But  I  must  say  that  it's 
wonderful  for  the  money.  That  sofa  over  there — " 

Up  here,  in  this  world  of  solid  furniture,  it  seemed  that 
England  was  indeed  a  country  to  be  proud  of!  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard  would  have  made  no  mean  Britannia,  seated  in  one 
of  the  Stores'  arm-chairs  with  a  Stores'  curtain-rod  for  her 
trident ! 

Upon  this  January  afternoon  she  found  her  way  to  the 
furniture  department  more  swiftly  than  was  usual  with  her. 
The  Stores  seemed  remote  from  her  to-day.  As  she  passed 
the  hams,  the  chickens,  the  medicines  and  powders,  the  petti- 
coats and  ribbons  and  gloves,  the  books  and  the  stationery,  the 
cut-glass  and  the  ironware,  the  fancy  pots,  the  brass,  the 
Chinese  lanterns,  the  toys,  the  pianos  and  the  gramophones, 
the  carpets  and  the  silver,  the  clocks  and  the  pictures,  she 
could  only  be  dimly  aware  that  to-day  these  things  were  not 
for  her,  that  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth  might  be  laid  at 
her  feet  and  she  would  not  care  for  them,  that  all  the  young 
men  and  young  women  in  England  might  bow  and  smile  be- 
fore her  and  she  would  have  no  interest  nor  pleasure  in  them. 
She  reached  the  furniture  department.  She  sank  down  in 
the  red-leather  arm-chair.  She  said,  with  a  little  sigh : 

"She  has  never  forgotten  before!" 

This  was,  considering  her  surroundings  and  the  moment 
of  its  expression,  the  most  poignant  utterance  of  her  life. 

Millie's  chief  emotion,  until  this  moment,  had  been  one 
of  intense  boredom.  The  Stores  seemed  to  her,  after  Paris, 
an  impossible  anachronism;  she  could  not  understand  why 
it  was  not  instantly  burnt  up  and  destroyed,  and  all  its  sol- 
emn absurdities  cast,  in  dirt  and  ashes,  to  the  winds. 

She  followed  her  mother  with  irritation,  and  glances  of 
cynical  contempt  were  flung  by  her  upon  the  innocent  lacjies 
who  were  buying  and  chatting  and  laughing  together.  Then 
she  remembered  that  her  mother  was  in  trouble,  and  she  was 
bowed  down  with  self-accusation  for  a  hard  heartless  girl 


156  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

who  thought  of  no  one  but  herself.  Her  moods  always  thus 
followed  swiftly  one  upon  another. 

When,  in  the  furniture  department,  she  heard  that  for- 
lorn exclamation  she  wanted  to  take  her  mother's  hand,  but 
was  shy  and  embarrassed. 

"I  expect  Katie  had  to  go  with  Philip.  .  .  .  Something 
she  had  to  do,  and  perhaps  it  only  kept  her  a  moment  or 
two  and  she  got  back  just  after  we'd  left.  We  didn't  wait 
long  enough  for  her.  She's  been  waiting  there,  I  expect, 
all  this  time  for  us." 

Mrs.  Trenchard's  cheek  flushed  and  her  eyes  brightened. 

"Why,  Millie,  that's  most  likely!  We'll  go  back  at  once 
.  .  .  that's  most  likely.  .  .  .  We'll  go  back  at  once." 

"This  is  a  very  cheap  article,"  said  the  young  man,  "or 
if  Madame  would  prefer  a  chair  with — " 

"No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard  quite  impatiently.  "Not 
to-day.  Not  to-day,  thank  you." 

"There  are  the  hot-water  bottles,"  said  Millie. 

"Oh,  of  course.  ...  I  want  some  hot-water  bottles.  Ours 
leak  .  .  .  three  of  them.  ..." 

"In  the  rubber  department,  Madam,  first  to  the  right,  sec- 
ond to  the  left.  .  .  ." 

But  Mrs.  Trenchard  hurried  through  the  hot-water  bottles 
in  a  manner  utterly  foreign  to  her. 

"Thank  you.  I'm  sure  they're  very  nice.  They  won't 
leak,  you  say?  How  much?  .  .  .  Thank  you  ...  no,  I 
prefer  these.  ...  If  you're  sure  they  won't  leak.  .  .  .  Yes, 
my  number  is  21 57.  .  .  .  Thank  you." 

Outside  in  Victoria  Street  she  said :  "I  might  have  given 
her  until  quarter  to  four.  I  daresay  she's  been  waiting  all  this 
time." 

But  Millie  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  days  together 
was  angry  with  Katherine.  She  said  to  herself:  "She's 
going  to  forget  us  all  like  this  now.  We  aren't,  any  of  us, 
going  to  count  for  anything.  Six  months  ago  she  would 
have  died  rather  than  hurt  mother.  . 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  157 

And  behind  her  anger  with  Katherine  was  anger  with 
herself  because  she  seemed  so  far  away  from  her  mother, 
because  she  was  at  a  loss  as  to  the  right  thing  to  do,  because 
she  had  said  that  she  had  seen  Philip  with  Katherine.  "You 
silly  idiot !"  she  thought  to  herself.  "Why  couldn't  you  have 
kept  your  mouth  shut  ?" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  spoke  no  word  all  the  way  home. 

Katherine  was  -not  in  the  house  when  they  returned. 
Millie  went  upstairs,  Mrs.  Trenchard  stared  at  the  desolate 
drawing-room.  The  fire  was  dead,  and  the  room,  in  spite 
of  its  electric  light,  heavy  and  dark.  Mrs.  Trenchard 
looked  at  the  reflection  of  her  face  in  the  mirror ;  with  both 
hands  she  pushed  her  hat  a  little,  then,  with  a  sudden  ges- 
ture, took  it  off,  drawing  out  the  pins  slowly  and  staring  at 
it  again.  Mrs.  Trenchard  glanced  at  the  clock,  and  then 
slowly  went  out,  holding  her  hat  in  her  hand,  advancing  with 
that  trailing,  half-sleepy  movement  that  was  peculiarly  hers. 

She  did  then  what  she  had  not  done  for  many  years:  she 
went  to  her  husband's  study.  This  hour  before  tea  he  always 
insisted  was  absolutely  his  own:  no  one,  on  any  pretext,  was 
ever  to  disturb  him.  To-day,  cosily,  with  a  luxurious  sense 
that  the  whole  world  had  been  made  for  him,  and  made  for 
him  exactly  as  he  liked  it,  he  was,  with  a  lazy  pencil,  half- 
writing,  half-thinking,  making  little  notes  for  an  essay  on 
William  Hazlitt. 

As  his  wife  entered  he  was  reading:  "How  fine  it  is  to 
enter  some  old  town,  walled  and  turreted,  just  at  the  approach 
of  nightfall,  or  to  come  to  some  straggling  village,  with  the 
lights  streaming  through  the  surrounding  gloom;  and  then, 
after  enquiring  for  the  best  entertainment  the  place  affords, 
to  take  one's  ease  at  one's  inn !  These  eventful  moments  in 
our  lives'  history  are  too  precious,  too  full  of  solid,  heartfelt 
happiness  to  be  frittered  and  dribbled  away  in  imperfect  sym- 
pathy. I  would  have  them  all  to  myself,  and  drain  them  to 
the  last  drop." 


158  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

How  thoroughly  George  Trenchard  agreed  with  that.  How 
lucky  for  him  that  he  was  able  to  defend  himself  from  so 
much  of  that  same  "imperfect  sympathy".  Not  that  he  did 
not  love  his  fellow-creatures,  far  from  it,  but  it  was  pleasant 
to  be  able  to  protect  oneself  from  their  too  constant,  their 
too  eager  ravages.  Had  he  been  born  in  his  beloved  Period, 
then  he  fancied  that  he  might,  like  magnificent  Sir  Walter, 
have  built  his  Castle  and  entertained  all  the  world,  but  in  this 
age  of  telephones  and  motorcars  one  was  absolutely  compelled. 
.  .  .  He  turned  Hazlitt's  words  over  on  his  tongue  with  a 
little  happy  sigh  of  regret,  and  then  was  conscious  that  his 
wife  was  standing  by  the  door. 

"Hullo !"  he  cried,  starting  up.    "Is  anything  the  matter  ?" 

It  was  so  unusual  for  her  to  be  there  that  he  stared  at  her 
large,  heavy  figure  as  though  she  had  been  a  stranger.  Then 
he  jumped  up,  laughing,  and  the  dark  blue  Hazlitt  fell  on 
to  the  carpet. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "tea-time?" 

She  came  trailing  across  the  room,  and  stood  beside  him 
near  the  fire. 

"No  .  .  ."  she  said,  "not  yet  .  .  .  George.  .  .  .  You 
look  very  cosy  here,"  she  suddenly  added. 

"I  am,"  he  answered.  He  looked  down  at  the  Hazlitt, 
and  her  eyes  followed  his  glance.  "What  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" 

"I've  been  to  the  Stores." 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  chaffing  her.  "You  live  there. 
And  what  have  you  been  buying  this  time?" 

"Hot-water  bottles." 

"Well,  that's  exciting!" 

"Ours  leaked.  .  .  .  Two  of  them,  and  we'd  had  them  a 
very  short  time.  I  took  Millie  with  me  1" 

"Very  good  for  her.    Clear  some  of  her  Parisian  fancies." 

There  was  a  pause  then,  and  he  bent  forward  as  though 
he  would  pick  up  the  book,  but  he  pulled  himself  up  again. 

"Katherine's  been  out  with  Philip  all  the  afternoon." 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  159 

He  smiled  one  of  his  radiant,  boyish  smiles. 

"She's  happy,  isn't  she  ?  It  does  one  good  to  see  her.  She 
deserves  it  too  if  anyone  in  this  world  does.  I  like  him — 
more  and  more.  He's  seen  the  world,  and  has  got  a  head  on 
his  shoulders.  And  he  isn't  conceited,  not  in  the  least.  He's 
charming  to  her,  and  I  think  he'll  make  her  a  very  good 
husband.  That  was  a  lucky  thing  for  us  his  coming  along, 
because  Katherine  was  sure  to  marry  someone,  and  she  might 
have  set  her  heart  on  an  awful  fellow.  You  never  know 
in  these  days." 

"Ah!  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  nervously 
turning  her  hat  over  in  her  hands,  "that  wouldn't  be  like 
Katie  at  all." 

"No,  well,  perhaps  it  wouldn't,"  said  George  cheerfully. 
There  was  another  pause,  and  now  he  bent  right  down,  picked 
up  the  book,  grunting  a  little,  then  stood,  turning  over  the 
pages. 

"I'm  getting  fat,"  he  said,  "good  for  all  of  us  when  we 
get  down  to  Garth." 

"George  .  .  ."  she  began  and  stopped. 

"Well,  my  dear."  He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and 
then  as  though  embarrassed  by  the  unexpected  intimacy  that 
his  action  produced,  withdrew  it. 

"Don't  you  think  we  might  go  out  to  the  theatre  one  eve- 
ning— theatre  or  something  ?" 

"What!  With  the  children?  Family  party!  Splendid 
idea!" 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  with  the  children — exactly.  Just  you 
and  I  alone.  Dine  somewhere — have  an  evening  together." 

It  was  no  use  to  pretend  that  he  was  not  surprised.  She 
saw  his  astonishment. 

"Why,  of  course — if  you'd  really  care  about  it.  Mostly 
pantomimes  just  now — but  I  daresay  we  could  find  something. 
Good  idea.  Good  idea." 

"Now   that — now   that — the   children   are   beginning   to 


160  THE  GEEE1ST  MIRROR 

marry  and  go  off  by  themselves.  Why,  I  thought  .  .  .  you 
understand.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course.  Of  course,"  he  said  again.  "Any  night  you 
like.  You  remind  me.  .  .  ." 

He  whistled  a  gay  little  tune,  and  turned  over  the  pages 
of  the  Hazlitt,  reading  sentences  here  and  there. 

"Tea  in  a  minute  ?  .  .  ."  he  said  gaily.  "Just  got  a  line 
or  two  more  to  finish.  Then  I'll  be  with  you." 

She  looked  at  him  as  though  she  would  say  something 
more:  she  decided,  however,  that  she  would  not,  and  trailed 
away. 

Returning  to  the  drawing-room,  she  found  Katherine 
standing  there.  Katherine's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes 
sparkled :  she  was  wearing  a  little  black  hat  with  red  berries, 
and  the  black  velvet  ribbon  round  her  neck  had  a  diamond 
brooch  in  it  that  Philip  had  given  her.  Rocket  was  bend- 
ing over  the  fire:  she  was  laughing  at  him.  When  she  saw 
her  mother  she  waved  her  hand. 

"Mother,  darling — what  kind  of  an  afternoon  have  you 
had  ?  I've  had  the  loveliest  time.  I  lunched  at  Rachel's,  and 
there,  to  my  immense  surprise,  was  Philip.  I  hadn't  the 
least  idea  he  was  coming.  Not  the  slightest.  We  weren't 
to  have  met  to-day  at  all.  Just  Lord  John,  Philip,  Rachel 
and  I.  Then  we  had  such  a  walk.  Philip  and  I.  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  right  through  the  Park,  Marble  Arch,  then 
through  Regent's  Park  all  the  way  up  Primrose  Hill — took 
a  'bus  home  again.  Never  enjoyed  anything  so  much. 
You've  all  been  out  too,  because  here's  the  fire  dead.  I've 
been  telling  Rocket  what  I  think  of  him.  Haven't  I,  Rocket  ? 
.  .  .  Where  are  the  others?  Millie,  Aunt  Aggie.  It's  tea- 
time." 

"Yes,  dear,  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

It  was  incredible,  Katherine  was  utterly  unconscious.  She 
remembered  nothing. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  looked  at  Rocket. 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  161 

"That'll  do,  Rocket.  That's  enough.  We'll  have  tea  at 
once." 

Rocket  went  out.     She  turned  to  her  daughter. 

"I'm  glad  you've  enjoyed  your  afternoon,  dear.  I  couldn't 
think  what  had  happened  to  you.  I  waited  until  half-past 
three." 

"Waited?" 

"Yes — to  go  to  the  Stores.  You  said  at  breakfast  that 
you'd  come  with  me — that  you'd  be  back  by  three.  I  waited 
until  half-past.  ...  It  was  quite  all  right,  dear.  Millie 
went  with  me.  She  had  seen  you — you  and  Philip  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner — so,  of  course,  I  didn't  wait  any  longer." 

Katherine  stared  at  her  mother:  the  colour  slowly  left  her 
face  and  her  hand  went  up  to  her  cheeks  with  a  gesture  of 
dismay. 

"Mother!  .  .  .  How  could  I!" 

"It  didn't  matter,  dear,  in  the  slightest  .  .  .  dear  me,  no. 
We  went,  Millie  and  I,  and  got  the  hot-water  bottles,  very 
good  and  strong  ones,  I  think,  although  they  said  they  couldn't 
positively  guarantee  them.  You  never  can  tell,  apparently, 
with  a  hot-water  bottle." 

Katherine's  eyes,  now,  were  wide  and  staring  with  dis- 
tress. 

"How  could  I  possibly  have  forgotten?  It  was  talking 
about  it  at  breakfast  when  Aunt  Aggie  too  was  talking  about 
something,  and  I  got  confused,  I  suppose.  No,  I  haven't 
any  excuse  at  all.  It  was  seeing  Philip  unexpectedly.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  abruptly,  realising  that  she  had  said  the  worst 
thing  possible. 

"You  mustn't  let  Philip,  dear,  drive  everything  out  of  your 
head,"  Mrs.  Trenchard  said,  laughing.  "We  have  some  claim 
on  you  until  you  are  married — then,  of  course.  .  .  ." 

The  colour  mounted  again  into  Katherine's  face. 

"No,  mother,  you  mustn't  say  that,"  she  answered  in  a 
low  voice,  as  though  she  was  talking  to  herself.  "Philip 
makes  no  difference — none  at  all.  I'd  have  forgotten  in  any 


162  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

case,  I'm  afraid,  because  we  talked  about  it  at  breakfast  when 
I  was  thinking  about  Aunt  Aggie.  It  was  nothing  to  do 
with  Philip — it  was  my  fault  absolutely.  I'll  never  forgive 
myself." 

All  the  joy  had  left  her  eyes.  She  was  very  grave:  she 
knew  that,  slight  as  the  whole  incident  was,  it  marked  a  real 
crisis  in  her  relations,  not  only  with  her  mother,  but  with  the 
whole  house.  Perhaps  during  all  these  weeks,  she  had  for- 
gotten them  all,  and  they  had  noticed  it  and  been  hurt  by  it. 
She  accused  herself  so  bitterly  that  it  seemed  that  nothing 
could  be  bad  enough  for  her.  She  felt  that,  in  the  future, 
she  could  not  show  her  mother  enough  attention  and  affection. 
But  now,  at  this  moment,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  Millie 
would  have  laughed,  hugged  her  mother  and  forgotten  in  five 
minutes  that  there  had  been  any  crime.  But,  in  this,  Kath- 
erine's  character  resembled,  exactly,  her  mother's. 

"Really,  Katie,  it  didn't  matter.  I'm  glad  you  liked  the 
walk.  And  now  it's  tea-time.  It  always  seems  to  be  tea- 
time.  There's  so  much  to  do." 

They  were  then,  both  of  them,  conscious  that  Aunt  Aggie 
had  come  in  and  was  smiling  at  them.  They  wished  intensely 
to  fling  into  the  pause  some  conversation  that  would  be  trivial 
and  unimportant.  They  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  .  .  . 

"Why,  Katherine,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "where  have  you 
been  ?  Millie  says  she's  been  to  the  Stores.  .  .  .  You  said  at 
breakfast  .  .  ." 

"I  was  kept  .  .  ."  said  Katherine  sharply,  and  left  the 
room. 

"I'll  be  down  in  five  minutes,  Aggie,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 
"Tea  time—" 

Her  sister  watched  her  as  she  went  out,  carrying  her  hat 
in  her  hand.  Half-way  upstairs  she  saw  Henry,  who  was 
half-tumbling,  half-sliding  from  step  to  step :  he  was  evidently 
hurrying,  in  his  confused  way,  to  do  something  that  he  had 
forgotten  to  do  or  to  finish  some  task  that  he  should  long  ago 
have  completed. 


MRS.  TRENCHARD  163 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "I  wonder  whether — " 

"Right,  mother,"  he  called  back  to  her.  "I  must — "  the 
rest  of  his  sentence  was  swallowed  by  distance.  She  turned 
and  looked  after  him,  then  walked  through  the  long  pas- 
sages to  her  room.  She  entered  it,  closed  the  door,  and  stood 
by  her  dressing-room  staring  in  front  of  her.  There  was  com- 
plete, intense  silence  here,  and  all  the  things  lay  about  the 
room,  as  though  waiting  for  her  to  address  them. 

"George,  Millie,  Henry,  Katherine  .  .  .  Millie  didn't 
want  to  go  ...  Katherine.  .  .  ." 

On  her  table  was  a  list  of  articles,  the  week's  washing — 
her  own  list. 

Handkerchiefs — 1 2 . 

Stockings — 8  pairs. 

She  looked  at  it  without  seeing  it,  then  with  a  sudden, 
vindictive,  passionate  movement  tore  it  in  half,  and  then 
those  halves  into  smaller  pieces,  tore  the  smaller  pieces  into 
little  shreds  of  paper  that  fluttered  in  the  air  and  then  fell 
on  to  the  floor  at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  HI 

LIFE  AND  HENRY 

PHILIP  was  entirely  happy  during  the  first  days  of  his 
engagement — so  happy  that  he  assured  himself  that  he 
had  never  before  known  what  happiness  was.  When,  how- 
ever, this  glorious  state  had  continued  for  four  or  five  weeks 
he  was  aware  that  that  most  sensitive  and  unreliable  of  his 
spiritual  possessions,  his  conscience,  was  being  attacked.  He 
was  aware  that  there  was  something  that  he  ought  to  do, 
something  that  he  did  not  want  to  do — he  was  aware  that  he 
must  tell  Katherine  about  Anna  and  his  life  with  her.  Now 
when  he  had  said  to  Mr.  Trenchard  that  his  life  was  free  of 
all  complications  and  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  that  need 
be  hidden  from  the  world,  he  was,  quite  honestly,  convinced 
that  that  was  so.  His  life  with  Anna  was  entirely  at  an  end : 
he  had  done  her  no  wrong,  she  owed  him  no  grudge,  he  did 
not  know  that  he  had  ever  taken  any  especial  pains  in  Moscow 
to  hide  his  relations  with  her,  and  he  did  not  believe  that  any- 
one there  thought  the  worse  of  him  for  them.  He  had  come 
to  England  with  that  chapter  closed,  eager  to  begin  another. 
His  only  thought  of  Anna  when  he  had  proposed  to  Katherine 
was  that  this  was  exactly  what  she  had  intended  him  to  do 
— that  she  would  be  pleased  if  she  knew.  His  conscience  was 
always  at  rest  when  he  thought  that  everyone  liked  him.  .  .  . 
Now  he  knew,  quite  definitely,  after  a  month  of  his  en- 
gagement to  Katherine,  that  some  of  the  members  of  the 
Trenchard  family  did  not  like  him — No  amount  of  his  de- 
termination to  like  them  could  blind  him  to  the  truth  of  this 
unpleasant  fact — Mrs.  Trenchard  did  not  like  him,  Aunt 

164 


LIFE  AND  HENKY  165 

Aggie  did  not  like  him,  probably  Mr.  Trenchard,  senior,  and 
Great-Aunt  Sarah  did  not  like  him  (he  could  not  tell,  be- 
cause they  were  so  silent),  and  he  was  not  sure  whether  Henry 
liked  him  or  not.  Therefore,  in  front  of  this  alarming  array 
of  critics  his  conscience  awoke. 

The  other  force  that  stirred  his  conscience  was  Katherine's 
belief  in  him.  In  Moscow  no  one  had  believed  in  anyone — 
anyone  there,  proved  to  be  faultless,  would  have  been,  for  that 
very  reason,  unpopular.  Anna  herself  had  held  the  most  hu- 
morous opinion  of  him.  (She  liked  Englishmen,  respected 
their  restraint  and  silence,  but  always  laughed  at  their  care 
for  appearances.)  Although  he  had  known  that  his  love  for 
Katherine  had  sprung  partly  from  his  sense  of  her  difference 
from  Anna,  he,  nevertheless,  had  expected  the  qualities  that 
had  pleased  him  in  the  one  to  continue  in  the  other.  He  dis- 
covered that  Katherine  trusted  him  utterly,  that  she  believed, 
with  absolute  confidence,  in  every  word  that  fell  from  his  lips, 
and  he  knew  that,  if  the  old  whole  world  came  to  her  and  told 
her  that  he  had  had  for  several  years  a  mistress  in  Moscow 
and  he  denied  it  to  her,  that  she  would  laugh  at  the  world. 
This  knowledge  made  him  extremely  uncomfortable.  First, 
he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  had  never  had  a  mis- 
tress, that  Anna  had  never  existed,  then,  when  that  miserably 
failed,  he  told  himself  that  he  could  always  deny  it  if  she 
asked  him,  then  he  knew  that  he  loved  her  so  much  that  he 
would  not  lie  to  her  (this  discovery  pleased  him).  He  must, 
he  finally  knew,  tell  her  himself.  .  .  .  He  told  himself  that 
he  would  wait  a  little  until  she  believed  in  him  less  com- 
pletely; he  must  prepare  her  mind.  He  did  not  even  now, 
however,  consider  that  she  would  feel  his  confession  very 
deeply;  Anna  would  simply  have  laughed  at  his  scruples. 

Meanwhile  he  loved  her  so  deeply  and  so  completely  that 
Anna's  figure  was  a  ghost,  dimly  recalled  from  some  other 
life.  He  had  almost  forgotten  her  appearance.  She  had 
a  little  black  mole  on  her  left  cheek — or  was  it  her  right  ?  .  .  . 


166  THE  GEEEN  MIRROR 

Somewhere  in  the  beginning  of  February  he  decided  that 
he  would  cultivate  Henry,  not  because  he  liked  Henry,  but 
because  he  thought  that  Katherine  would  like  it — also,  al- 
though this  he  did  not  confess  to  himself,  because  Henry  was 
so  strange  and  unexpected  that  he  was  half  afraid  of  him. 

Of  course  Henry  ought  to  be  sent  to  one  of  the  Universi- 
ties, it  was  absurd  to  keep  a  great,  hulking  boy  of  nineteen 
hanging  about,  wasting  his  own  time  and  the  time  of  his 
family,  suffering  no  discipline  and  learning  nothing  of  any 
value.  George  Trenchard  had  told  Philip  that  Henry  was 
too  young  for  Oxford,  and  was  to  have  a  year  of  "seeing  the 
world"  before  he  "went  up".  A  fine  lot  of  seeing  the  world 
Henry  was  doing,  slouching  about  the  house,  reading  novels 
and  sulking!  Philip,  in  spite  of  his  years  in  Russia,  felt 
very  strongly  that  every  Englishman  should  be  shaven  clean 
and  wear  clothes  from  a  good  tailor.  About  men  of  other  na- 
tionalities it  did  not  matter,  but  smartness  was  expected  from 
an  Englishman.  Henry,  however,  was  in  that  unpleasant 
condition  known  as  "sprouting."  He  had  a  little  down  on 
one  cheek,  apparently  none  on  the  other ;  in  certain  lights  his 
chin  boasted  a  few  hairs  of  a  forlorn  and  desolate  appear- 
ance, in  other  lights  you  would  swear  that  there  were  none. 
His  forehead  often  broke  into  pimples  (these  were  a  terrible 
agony  to  him) . 

"Why  can't  he  do  something  with  his  hair?"  thought 
Philip,  "brush  it  and  have  it  cut  regularly.  Why  is  it  that 
awful  dusty  colour  ?  He  might  at  least  do  something  to  his 
clothes.  Mrs.  Trenchard  ought  to  see  to  it." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  did  try  to  "see  to  it".  She  was  perpetually 
buying  new  clothes  for  Henry ;  she  took  him  to  her  husband's 
tailor  and  dragged  him,  again  and  again,  to  have  things  "tried 
on".  Henry,  however,  possessed  the  art  of  reducing  any  suit, 
within  twenty-four  hours  of  his  first  wearing  it,  to  chaos. 
He  was  puzzled  himself  to  know  what  he  did. 

"But,  Henry,  it  was  new  last  week  1" 


LIFE  AND  HEKRY  167 

"I  know.  How  can  I  help  it  ?  I  haven't  done  anything 
to  the  beastly  thing.  It  simply  came  like  that." 

He  affected  a  lofty  indifference  to  clothes,  but  Philip,  who 
saw  him  look  frequently  into  the  looking-glass,  suspected  the 
sincerity  of  this.  Katherine  said  to  Philip : 

"You  have  so  much  influence  on  Henry.  Do  talk  to  him 
about  his  clothes  and  other  things.  He  won't  mind  it  from 
you.  He  gets  so  angry  if  we  say  anything." 

Philip  was  not  at  all  sure  that  Henry  would  "not  mind  it 
from  him".  When  they  were  alone  Henry  would  listen  with 
the  greatest  interest  to  the  things  that  Philip  told  him;  his 
eyes  would  soften,  his  mouth  would  smile,  his  voice  would 
quiver  with  his  excitement.  Then,  quite  suddenly,  his  face 
would  cloud,  he  would  blush  and  frown,  almost  scowl,  then, 
abruptly,  with  some  half-muttered  word,  fall  into  a  sulky 
silence.  Once  he  had  broken  in  to  Philip's  information  with : 
"Oh !  I  suppose  you  think  I  don't  know  anything  about  it, 
that  I'm  a  stupid  idiot.  .  .  .  Well,  if  I  am,  what  do  you 
bother  to  talk  to  me  for?" 

This,  of  course,  annoyed  Philip,  who  always  liked  to  feel, 
after  a  conversation  with  anyone,  that  "everything  had  gone 
off  all  right".  Had  it  not  been  for  Katherine,  he  would  not 
have  bothered  with  the  fellow.  Another  thing  puzzled  and 
even  alarmed  Philip.  Henry  would  often,  when  he  thought 
that  he  was  unwatched,  stare  at  Philip  in  a  perplexed  brood- 
ing fashion  with  a  look  in  his  eye  that  said:  "I'll  find  out 
one  day  all  right.  You  think  that  no  one's  watching  you,  that 
I'm  not  worth  anyone's  trouble.  .  .  .  You  wait  and  see." 

Henry  would  look  at  Philip's  buttons,  studs,  tie,  handker- 
chief with  this  same  puzzled  stare.  It  was  another  side  of 
that  surveillance  of  which  Philip  had  been  conscious  ever 
since  Tim  Flaunder's  visit  to  his  rooms.  "Ah!"  thought 
Philip,  "once  I'm  married,  they  can  watch  as  much  as  they 
like.  ...  A  year's  a  long  time  though." 

He  decided  then  to  cultivate  Henry  and  to  know  the  boy 
better.  "I'll  show  him  that  there's  nothing  in  me  to  be  sus- 


168  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

picious  about — that  I'm  worthy  of  marrying  his  sister.  I'll 
make  a  friend  of  him." 

He  asked  George  Trenchard  whether  he  might  give  Henry 
an  evening.  "Take  him  out  to  dinner  and  a  music-hall.  I'll 
look  after  him." 

Trenchard  said: 

"My  dear  fellow,  if  you  can  make  Henry  look  something 
like  an  ordinary  civilised  being  we'll  all  be  in  your  debt  for 
ever.  I  don't  envy  you  your  job  .  .  .  but,  of  course,  do  what 
you  like  with  him." 

When  Philip  told  Mrs.  Trenchard  she  said : 

"How  nice  for  Henry!  How  kind  of  you  to  bother  with 
the  boy !  He  goes  out  so  little.  How  nice  for  Henry !" 

When  Philip  asked  Henry  himself,  Henry  coloured  crim- 
son, looked  at  his  boots,  muttered  something  about  shirts, 
stammered  "Thanks  0  .  .  very  glad  .  .  .  awful  bore  for 
you",  and  finally  stumbled  from  the  room. 

Philip  thought  Jules  for  dinner,  The  Empire,  The  Carlton 
for  supper.  Katherine's  delight  when  he  told  her  compen- 
sated him  for  all  the  effort  of  the  undertaking. 

To  understand  Henry's  emotion  at  Philip's  invitation 
would  be  to  understand  everything  about  Henry,  and  that 
no  one  has  ever  done.  His  chief  sensation  was  one  of  delight 
and  excitement — this  he  hid  from  all  the  world.  He  had 
waited,  during  more  years  than  he  could  remember,  for  the 
arrival  of  that  moment  when  he  would  be  treated  as  a  man. 
Lately  he  had  said  to  himself,  "If  they're  all  going  to  laugh 
at  me  always,  I'll  show  them  one  day  soon."  He  had  a  fero- 
cious disgust  at  their  lack  of  penetration.  He  had,  from  the 
very  first,  admired  Philip's  appearance.  Here  was  a  man 
still  young,  with  perfect  clothes,  perfect  ability  to  get  in 
and  out  of  a  room  easily,  perfect  tranquillity  in  conversation. 
He  had  been  offended  at  Philip's  treatment  of  Seymour,  but 
even  that  had  been  a  bold,  daring  thing  to  do,  and  Henry 
was  forced  to  admit  that  he  had  been,  since  that  episode,  him- 
self sometimes  doubtful  of  Seymour's  ability.  Then  Philip  in 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  169 

his  conversation  had  shown  such  knowledge  of  the  world; 
Henry  could  listen  all  day  to  his  talk  about  Russia.  To  bo 
able  to  travel  so  easily  from  one  country  to  the  other,  without 
fear  or  hesitation,  that  was,  indeed,  wonderful ! 

Afterwards  had  occurred  one  of  the  critical  moments  in 
Henry's  career;  his  passionate  memory  of  that  afternoon 
when  he  had  seen  the  embrace  of  Katherine  and  Philip, 
changed  those  two  into  miraculous  beings,  apart  from  all  the 
world.  He  heard  Philip  for  the  audacity  of  it,  he  also  ad- 
mired him,  envied  him,  speculated  endlessly  about  it.  "Ah ! 
if  somebody  would  love  me  like  that",  he  thought.  "I'd  be 
just  as  fine.  They  think  me  a  baby,  not  fit  even  to  go  to 
college,  I  could — I  could  .  .  ."  He  did  not  know  what 
it  was  that  he  could  do.  Perhaps  Philip  would  help  him. 

And  yet  he  did  not  really  like  Philip.  He  thought  that 
Philip  laughed  at  him,  despised  him.  His  one  continual 
fear  was  lest  Philip  should  teach  Katherine,  Henry's  adored 
and  worshipped  Katherine,  also  to  despise  him.  "If  he  were 
to  do  that  I'd  kill  him",  he  thought.  He  believed  utterly  in 
Katherine's  loyalty,  "but  she  loves  Philip  so  now.  It's 
changed  her.  She'll  never  belong  to  us  properly  again." 
Always  his  first  thought  was :  "So  long  as  he's  good  to  her 
and  makes  her  happy  nothing  matters." 

Now  it  seemed  that  Philip  was  making  her  happy.  Kath- 
erine's happiness  lit,  with  its  glow,  the  house,  the  family,  all 
the  world.  When,  therefore,  Philip  asked  Henry  to  dine 
with  him,  the  great  moment  of  Henry's  life  seemed  to  have 
come,  and  to  have  come  from  a  source  honourable  cuough 
for  Henry  to  accept  it. 

"If  only  I  dare,"  Henry  thought,  "there  are  so  many 
things  that  I  should  like  to  ask  him."  The  remembered 
passion  of  that  kiss  told  Henry  that  there  could  be  nothing 
that  Philip  did  not  know.  He  was  in  a  ferment  of  excite- 
ment and  expectation.  To  the  family  he  said: 

"I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  in,  Tuesday  evening.     Sorry,  but 


170  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Philip  and  I  are  dining  together.  Expect  I'll  be  in,  Wednes- 
day, though." 

It  is  a  fact,  strange  but  true,  that  Henry  had  never  en- 
tered one  of  the  bigger  London  restaurants.  The  Tren- 
chards  were  not  among  those  more  modern  parents  who  spend 
their  lives  in  restaurants  and  take  their  infant  sons  in  Eton 
jackets  to  supper  at  the  Savoy  after  the  Drury  Lane  panto- 
mime. Moreover,  no  one  ever  thought  of  taking  Henry 
anywhere.  He  had  been  at  school  until  a  few  months  ago, 
and  when,  in  the  holidays,  he  had  gone  to  children's  parties 
he  had  always  behaved  badly.  George  Trenchard  went  very 
seldom  into  restaurants,  and  often,  for  days  together,  forgot 
that  he  had  a  son  at  all.  Down  in  Glebeshire  Henry  was 
allowed  to  roam  as  he  pleased;  even  in  London  no  restric- 
tions were  placed  on  his  movements.  So  long  as  he  went 
to  the  Abbey  twice  on  Sunday  he  could  do  what  he  liked. 
A  friend  of  Seymour's  had  put  him  up  as  a  member  of  a 
club  in  a  little  street  off  St.  James:  the  entrance  was  only 
a  guinea,  and  "anyone  could  be  a  member".  Henry  had, 
three  months  ago,  received  a  book  of  club  rules,  a  list  of  mem- 
bers, and  a  printed  letter  informing  him  that  he  was  now 
elected,  must  pay  five  guineas  entrance  and  a  guinea  sub- 
scription. He  had  extorted  the  money  from  his  father,  and, 
for  twenty-four  hours,  was  the  proudest  and  happiest  human 
being  in  London.  He  had  never,  alas!  dared  to  venture 
inside  the  building.  Seymour's  friend  had  forgotten  him. 
The  Club  had  remained  strangely  ignorant  of  his  existence. 
On  three  occasions  he  had  started  out,  and  on  three  occasions 
his  fears  had  been  too  strong  for  him.  Once  he  had  arrived 
at  the  very  club  door,  but  a  stout  gentleman,  emerging  and 
staring  at  him  haughtily,  had  driven  the  blood  from  his 
heart.  He  had  hurried  home,  feeling  that  he  had  been  per- 
sonally insulted.  He  found,  on  his  return,  that  some  ve- 
hicle had  splashed  mud  on  to  his  cheek.  "There!  you  see 
what  happens !  .  .  ." 

He  was  not  far  from  tears. 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  171 

He  had,  behind  his  unhappy  experiences,  the  resolved  cer- 
tainly that  he  was  marked  apart  by  destiny  for  some  extraor- 
dinary future:  his  very  misfortunes  seemed  to  prove  this. 
He  had  bought  for  himself  a  second-hand  copy  of  that  ro- 
mance to  which  I  have  made  earlier  allusion.  It  exercised, 
at  this  time,  an  extraordinary  influence  upon  him,  and  in 
the  hero's  fight  against  an  overwhelming  fate  he  saw  his  own 
history,  even  when  the  circumstance  was  as  trivial  as  his 
search  for  a  stud  under  the  washing-stand.  So  young  was 
he,  so  crude,  so  sentimental,  impulsive,  suspicious,  self-con- 
fident, and  lacking  in  self-confidence,  loyal,  ambitious,  mod- 
est and  conceited  that  it  was  not  strange  that  Philip  did  not 
understand  him. 

On  the  evening  of  his  dinner  with  Philip  he  dressed  with 
the  utmost  care.  There  were  three  dress-shirts  in  his  drawer, 
and  it  was,  of  course,  fate  that  decided  that  there  should  be 
something  the  matter  with  all  of  them — one  of  them  had 
been  worn  once  already,  one  was  frayed  at  the  cuffs,  one  had 
a  cracked  and  gaping  stud  hole.  He  pared  the  frayed  cuffs 
with  his  scissors,  and  hoped  for  the  best.  He  then  produced 
the  only  valuable  article  in  his  possession,  a  pearl  stud  given 
to  him  by  his  Uncle  Bob  on  his  last  birthday.  He  was 
greatly  afraid  of  this  stud,  because  the  head  of  it  screwed 
into  the  body  of  it,  and  he  was  never  sure  whether  he  had 
screwed  it  sufficiently.  Suppose  it  were  to  leap  into  the 
soup!  Suppose  it  were  to  fall  off  and  he  not  see  it  and 
lose  it!  Such  catastrophes  were  only  too  probable  where 
he  was  concerned.  He  screwed  it  in  so  vigorously  to-night 
that  he  made  a  grey  mark  round  the  stud-hole.  He  dabbed 
this  with  a  sponge,  and  the  grey  mark  was  greyer.  His 
father  had  told  him  that  he  must  never  wear  a  "made-up" 
evening  tie,  but  he  had  not  told  him  how  to  tie  one  that 
was  not  made-up,  and  Henry  had  been  too  timid  to  enquire. 
To-night,  by  a  sudden  twist  of  genius,  he  produced  some- 
thing that  really  seemed  satisfactory;  one  end  was  longer 


172  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

than  the  other,  but  his  father  approved  of  a  little  disorder 
— when  the  tie  was  too  neat  it  was  almost  "made-up". 
Henry's  dress-clothes,  lying  there  upon  the  bed,  seemed  a 
little  faded.  The  trousers  glistered  in  the  electric  light,  and 
the  tails  of  the  coat  were  sadly  crumpled.  But  when  they 
were  on  his  body  Henry  gazed  at  them  with  pleasure.  One 
trouser  leg  seemed  oddly  longer  than  the  other,  and  his  shirt 
cuff  had  disappeared  altogether,  but  the  grey  mark  round  the 
stud  was  scarcely  visible,  and  his  collar  was  beautifully  clean. 

His  face  was  red  and  shining,  his  hair  was  plastered 
down  with  water;  it  was  a  pity  that  there  were  three  red 
pimples  on  his  forehead,  but  there  had  been  four  yesterday. 
His  ears,  too,  were  dreadfully  red,  but  that  was  from  ex- 
citement. 

He  had  an  opera  hat  and  a  black  greatcoat  with  a  velvet 
collar,  so  that  he  felt  very  smart  indeed  as  he  slipped  out 
of  the  house.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  escaped  the  family, 
although  he  fancied  that  Aunt  Aggie  watched  him  from  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  He  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  Kath- 
erine  for  a  moment,  and  had  he  spoken  his  heart  out,  he 
would  have  assured  her  that,  for  her  sake,  he  would  do  his 
best  to  love  Philip.  It  was  for  her  sake,  after  all,  that  he 
had  dressed  so  carefully,  for  her  sake  that  he  wanted  to  be 
a  fine  figure  in  the  world.  If  he  had  seen  her,  all  that  he 
would  have  said  would  have  been:  "So  long,  Katherine. 
Dining  with  Philip,  you  know.  See  you  in  the  morn- 
ing » 

He  rode  on  an  omnibus  from  Whitehall  to  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus, and  walked  then  to  Jules'.  The  clocks  were  striking  half- 
past  seven,  the  appointed  hour,  as  he  entered.  A  stout  man 
like  an  emperor  insisted  on  disrobing  him  of  his  greatcoat, 
and  he  felt  suddenly  naked.  He  peeped  into  the  room,  which 
was  very  empty,  and  all  the  waiters,  like  figures  in  Mme. 
Tussaud's,  stared  at  him  together.  He  was  sure  that  his  tie 
had  mounted  above  his  collar ;  he  put  up  his  hand,  found  that 
this  was  so,  and  thought  that  the  emperor  was  laughing  at 


LIFE  AND  HENKY  173 

him.  He  bent  down  to  tie  his  shoe,  and  then,  just  as  a  large 
party  entered  the  restaurant,  there  was  a  little  pop,  and  the 
head  of  his  pearl  stud  was  gone.  He  was  on  his  knees  in  a 
second. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  Emperor.    "Allow  me." 

"No,"  said  Henry,  whose  face  was  purple,  whose  heart 
was  beating  like  a  hammer,  and  through  whose  chasm  in  his 
shirt  a  little  wind  was  blowing  against  his  vest. 

"It's  my  stud.  I  can — I  beg  your — Oh,  there — No,  it 
isn't—" 

He  was  conscious  of  towering  forms  above  him,  of  a  lady's 
black  silk  stockings,  of  someone  saying:  "Why,  dammit"; 
of  a  sudden  vision  of  the  pearl  and  a  large  masculine  boot 
thundering  towards  it. 

From  his  position  on  the  floor  he  cried  in  agony:  "Oh, 
do  look  out,  you're  stepping  on  it  I  ...  I  say  .  .  .  Please !" 

He  heard  a  sharp  little  cry,  then,  just  as  he  seized  it, 
Philip's  voice: 

"Why,  Henry!" 

He  staggered  up  from  his  knees,  which  were  white  with 
dust:  his  purple  face,  his  disordered  hair,  a  piece  of  pink 
vest  that  protruded  from  his  shirt  made  an  unusual  picture. 
Someone  began  to  laugh. 

"I  say,"  said  Philip  quickly,  "come  in  here."  He  led  the 
way  into  the  lavatory.  "Now,  what's  the  matter?" 

Henry  stared  at  him.    Why  couldn't  the  silly  fool  see  ? 

"It's  my  stud  .  .  .  the  head  came  off  ...  might  have 
happened  to  anyone." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Philip  cheerfully.  "Got  it  now  ? 
That's  good.  Look  here,  I'll  screw  it  in  for  you." 

"The  other  piece  .  .  ."  said  Henry,  who  was  near  tears 
.  .  .  "It's  slipped  down — inside." 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  take  your  trousers  off,"  said 
Philip  gravely.  "Just  let  'em  down.  It's  all  right.  There's 
no  one  here  who  matters." 

Henry  undressed.    A  smart  man  with  hair  Kke  a  looking- 


174  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

glass  came  in,  stared  and  went  out  again.  Two  attendants 
watched  sympathetically.  After  some  time  the  stud  was  ar- 
ranged, and  Henry  was  dressed  again. 

"You'd  better  just  let  me  tie  your  tie,"  said  Philip.  "It's 
so  difficult  in  here.  One  can't  see  to  do  it  oneself." 

Henry  said  nothing.  He  brushed  his  hair  again,  suffered 
himself  to  be  dusted  and  patted  by  the  attendant,  and  fol- 
lowed Philip  into  the  restaurant.  He  was  so  miserable  that 
suicide  was  the  only  alternative  to  a  disgraced  and  dishon- 
oured life.  He  was  sure  that  everyone  in  the  restaurant  was 
laughing  at  him ;  the  grave  waiter  who  brought  him  his  soup, 
the  fat,  round  button  of  a  waiter  who  brought  the  cham- 
pagne in  a  bucket  of  ice,  the  party  opposite,  two  men  and 
two  women  (beasts!),  all  these  were  laughing  at  him!  His 
forehead  was  burning,  his  heart  deadly  cold.  He  glared 
at  Philip,  gulped  down  his  food  without  knowing  at  all  what 
it  was  that  he  was  eating,  said  "yes"  and  "no" ;  never  looked 
at  Philip,  but  stared,  fiercely,  round  him  as  though  he  were 
looking  for  someone. 

Philip  persisted,  very  bravely,  in  a  succession  of  bright 
and  interesting  anecdotes,  but  at  last  he  flagged.  He  was 
afraid  that  he  had  a  terrible  evening  before  him  .  .  .  never 
again.  .  .  . 

"He's  thinking,"  said  Henry  to  himself,  "that  I'm  im- 
possible. He's  wondering  what  on  earth  he  asked  me  for. 
Why  did  he  if  he  didn't  want  to  ?  Conceited  ass  ...  that 
about  the  stud  might  have  happened  to  anyone.  He'll  tell 
Katherine.  .  .  ." 

"Coffee?"  said  Philip. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Henry. 

"All  right.  We'll  have  it  later.  We'd  better  be  getting 
on  to  the  show.  Ready  ?" 

They  moved  away ;  they  were  in  a  cab ;  they  were  caught 
into  the  heart  of  some  kaleidoscope.  Lights  flashed,  men 
shouted,  someone  cried  in  a  high  treble.  Lights  flashed  again, 
and  they  were  sitting  in  the  stalls  at  the  "Empire"  music- 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  175 

hall.  Henry  hailed  the  darkness  with  relief;  he  felt  as 
though  his  body  were  bruised  all  over,  and  when  he  looked 
up  and  saw  a  stout  man  upeide  down  on  a  tight-rope  he 
thought  to  himself:  "Well,  he  can't  see  me  anyhow.  .  .  . 
He  doesn't  know  that  the  top  of  my  stud  came  off." 

There  followed  then  a  number  of  incredible  people.  (It 
must  be  remembered  that  he  had  never  been  to  a  music-hall 
before.)  There  was  a  man  with  two  black  eyes  and  a  red 
nose  who  sang  a  song  about  the  wives  he  had  had  (seven 
verses — one  wife  to  every  verse) ,  there  was  a  stout  lady  who 
sang  about  porter,  and  there  were  two  small  children  who 
danced  the  Tango — finally  a  gentleman  in  evening  dress  and 
a  large  white  button-hole  who  recited  poems  whilst  his  friends 
in  the  background  arranged  themselves  in  illustrative  groups, 
In  this  strange  world  Henry's  soul  gradually  found  peace. 
It  was  a  world,  after  all,  in  which  it  was  not  absurd  to  grope 
on  one's  knees  for  the  top  of  one's  stud — it  was  the  natural 
and  clever  thing  to  do.  When  the  lady  who  sang  about  the 
porter  kissed  her  hand  to  the  audience,  Henry,  clapping  en- 
thusiastically, felt  a  throb  of  sympathy.  "I'm  so  glad  she's 
been  a  success  to-night,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  though  she 
had  been  his  cousin  or  his  aunt.  "She'll  feel  pleased."  He 
wanted,  by  this  time,  everyone  to  be  happy.  .  .  .  When, 
at  the  last,  the  fat  man  in  evening  clothes  recited  his  tale  of 
"the  good  old  British  Flag,"  and  was  surrounded  instantly 
by  a  fluttering  cloud  of  Union  Jacks,  Henry  was  very  near 
to  tears.  "I'll  make  them  send  me  to  Oxford,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "At  once  .  .  .  I'll  work  like  anything." 

The  lights  went  up — ten  minutes'  interval — whilst  the 
band  played  tunes  out  of  "Riogletta",  and  behind  the  curtain 
they  prepared  for  that  immensely  popular  ballet  "The 
Pirate". 

"Let's  walk  about  a  bit,  shall  we?"  said  Philip. 

Henry,  humbly,  with  a  timid  smile  agreed.  He  tumbled 
over  a  lady  as  he  passed  out  of  his  row,  but  he  did  not  mind 
now,  his  eyes  were  shining  and  his  head  was  up.  He  fol- 


176  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

lowed  Philip,  admiring  his  broad  shoulders,  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  sturdy  carriage  and  defiant  movement  of  his  body. 
He  glared  haughtily  at  young  men  lolling  over  the  bar,  and 
the  young  men  glared  back  haughtily  at  him.  He  followed 
Philip  upstairs,  and  they  turned  into  the  Promenade  (Henry 
did  not  know  that  it  was  the  Promenade).  With  his  head 
in  the  air  he  stepped  forward  and  plunged  instantly  into  some- 
thing that  flung  powder  down  his  throat,  a  strange  and  acrid 
scent  up  his  nose :  his  fingers  scraped  against  silk. 

"There!  clumsy!"  said  a  voice. 

A  lady  wearing  a  large  hat  and  (as  it  appeared  to  Henry) 
tissue  of  gold,  smiled  at  him. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said,  putting  some  fat  fingers  on 
his  hand  for  a  moment.  "It  doesn't,  dear,  really.  Hot,  isn't 
it?" 

He  was  utterly  at  a  loss,  scarlet  in  the  face,  his  eyes  staring 
wildly.  Philip  had  come  to  his  rescue. 

"Hot,  it  is,"  said  Philip. 

"What  about  a  drink,  dear  ?"  said  the  lady. 

"Not  just  now,"  said  Philip,  smiling  at  her  as  though  he'd 
known  her  all  his  life.  "Jolly  good  scrum  up  here,  isn't 
there?" 

"Everyone  bangin'  about  so,"  said  the  lady.  "What  about 
a  drink  now?  Rot  waitin'." 

"Sorry,"  said  Philip.  "Got  an  engagement.  Very  im- 
portant— "  The  lady,  however,  had  suddenly  recognised  an 
old  friend.  "Why,  Charlie !"  Henry  heard  her  say :  "Who 
ever  ..." 

They  sat  down  on  a  sofa  near  the  bar  and  watched  the 
group.  Henry  was  thinking:  "He  spoke  to  her  as  though 
he  had  known  her  all  his  life.  .  .  ."  He  was  suddenly  aware 
that  he  and  his  father  and  mother  and  aunts,  yes,  and  Kath- 
erine  too  were  babies  compared  with  Philip.  "Why,  they 
don't  know  anything  about  him.  Katherine  doesn't  know  any- 
thing really.  .  .  ."  He  watched  the  women  who  passed  him ; 
he  watched  their  confidential  whispers  with  gentlemen  who  all 


LIFE  AND  HEKRY  177 

seemed  to  have  red  faces  and  bulging  necks.  He  watched  two 
old  men  with  their  hats  cocked  to  one  side;  they  had  faces 
like  dusty  strawberries,  and  they  wore  white  gloves  and  car- 
ried silver-topped  canes.  They  didn't  speak,  and  nothing 
moved  in  their  faces  except  their  eyes.  He  watched  a  woman 
who  was  angry  and  a  man  who  was  apologetic.  He  watched  a 
girl  in  a  simple  black  dress  who  stood  with  grave,  waiting 
eyes.  She  suddenly  smiled  a  welcome  to  someone,  but  the 
smile  was  hard,  practised,  artificial,  as  though  she  had  fast- 
ened it  on  like  a  mask.  Philip  belonged  to  these  people; 
he  knew  their  ways,  their  talk,  their  etiquette,  their  tragedies 
and  comedies.  Henry  stared  at  him,  at  his  gaze,  rather  un- 
interested and  tired.  (Philip,  at  that  moment,  was  thinking 
of  Katherine,  of  the  bore  that  her  young  brother  was :  he  was 
remembering  the  last  time  that  she  had  kissed  him,  of  her 
warm  cheek  against  his,  of  a  little  laugh  that  she  had  given, 
a  laugh  of  sheer  happiness,  of  trusting,  confident  delight.) 
Henry  sat  there,  frightened,  thrilled,  shocked,  proud,  indig- 
nant and  terribly  inquisitive.  "I'm  beginning  to  know  about 
life.  Already  I  know  more  than  they  do  at  home." 

Two  boys  who  must  have  been  younger  than  he  passed  him ; 
they  were  smart,  shining,  scornful.  They  had  the  derisive, 
incurious  gaze  of  old  men,  and  also  the  self-assertive  swagger 
of  very  young  ones.  Henry,  as  he  looked  at  them,  knew  that 
he  was  a  babe  in  arms  compared  with  them ;  but  it  seemed 
to  him  to-night  that  all  his  family  was  still  in  the  cradle. 
"Why,  even  father,"  he  thought,  "if  you  brought  him  here  I 
don't  believe  he'd  know  what  to  say  or  do." 

They  went  downstairs,  then  found  their  seats,  and  the  cur- 
tain rose  on  the  ballet.  The  ballet  was  concerned  with  pirates 
and  Venice  in  the  good  Old  Days.  The  first  scene  was  on  an 
island  in  the  Adriatic :  there  were  any  number  of  pirates  and 
ladies  who  loved  them,  and  the  sun  slowly  set  and  the  dancers 
on  the  golden  sand  sank,  exhausted,  at  the  feet  of  their  lovers, 
and  the  moon  rose  and  the  stars  came  out  in  a  purple  sky. 
Then  the  Pirate  Chief,  an  enormous  Byronic  figure  with  hair 


178  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

jet  black  and  tremendous  eyebrows,  explained  through  his 
hands,  that  there  was  a  lady  in  Venice  whom  he  loved,  whom 
he  must  seize  and  convey  to  his  island.  Would  his  brave  fel- 
lows follow  him  in  his  raid  ?  His  brave  fellows  would !  One 
last  dance  and  one  last  drink,  then  death  and  glory!  The 
curtain  came  down  upon  figures  whirling  madly  beneath  the 
moon. 

There  followed  then  the  Doge's  Palace,  a  feast  with  much 
gold  plate,  aged  senators  with  white  beards,  who  watched  the 
dancing  with  critical  gaze,  finally  a  lovely  lady  who  danced 
mysteriously  beneath  many  veils.  She  was,  it  appeared,  a 
Princess,  sought  in  marriage  by  the  Doge,  her  heart,  however, 
lost  utterly  to  a  noble  Stranger  whom  she  had  once  seen  but 
never  forgotten.  The  Doge,  mad  with  love  for  her,  orders 
her  to  be  seized.  She  is  carried  off,  wildly  protesting,  and  the 
golden  scene  is  filled  with  white  dancers,  then  with  fantastic 
masked  figures,  at  last  with  dancers  in  black,  who  float  like 
shadows  through  the  mazes  of  the  music. 

The  third  scene  is  the  Piazza.  The  country  people  have 
a  holiday — drinking  and  dancing.  Then  enters  a  magnificent 
procession,  the  Doge  leading  his  reluctant  bride.  Suddenly 
shouts  are  heard.  It  is  the  Pirates !  A  furious  fight  follows, 
the  Pirates,  headed  by  their  chief,  who  wears  a  black  mask, 
are,  of  course,  victorious.  The  Princess  is  carried,  screaming, 
to  the  Pirates'  ship,  treasure  is  looted,  pretty  village  maidens 
are  captured.  The  Pirates  sail  away.  Last  scene  is  the 
Island  again.  The  ladies  are  expecting  their  heroes,  the  ves- 
sel is  sighted,  the  Pirates  land.  There  are  dances  of  tri- 
umph, the  spoil,  golden  goblets,  rich  tapestries,  gleaming 
jewels  are  piled  high,  finally  the  captive  lady  Princess,  who 
weeps  bitterly,  is  led  by  the  Chieftain,  still  masked,  into  the 
middle  of  the  stage.  She,  upon  her  knees,  begs  for  pity.  He 
is  stern  (a  fine  melancholy  figure).  At  last  he  removes  the 
mask.  Behold,  it  is  the  noble  Stranger !  With  what  rapture 
does  she  fall  into  his  arms,  with  what  dances  are  the  trium- 
phant Pirates  made  happy,  upon  what  feasting  does  the  sun 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  179 

again  set.  The  moon  rises  and  the  stars  appear.  Finally, 
when  the  night-sky  is  sheeted  with  dazzling  lights  and  the 
moon  is  orange-red,  the  Pirates  and  their  ladies  creep  away. 
Only  the  Chieftain  and  his  Princess,  locked  in  one  another's 
arms,  are  left.  Someone,  in  the  distance,  pipes  a  little  tune 
.  .  .  the  curtain  descends. 

Impossible  to  describe  the  effect  that  this  had  upon  Henry. 
The  nearest  approach  to  its  splendour  in  all  his  life  before 
had  been  the  Procession  of  Nations  at  the  end  of  the  Drury 
Lane  pantomime,  and,  although  he  had  found  that  very  beau- 
tiful, he  had  nevertheless  been  disturbed  by  a  certain  sense 
of  incongruity,  Aladdin  and  his  Princess  having  little  to  do 
with  Canada  and  Australia  represented,  as  those  fine  coun- 
tries were,  by  two  stout  ladies  of  the  Lane  chorus.  I  think 
that  this  "Pirate"  ballet  may  be  said  to  be  the  Third  Crisis 
in  this  critical  development  of  Henry,  the  first  being  the 
novel  about  the  Forest,  the  second  his  vision  of  Katherine 
and  Philip. 

It  will  be,  perhaps,  remembered  that  at  Jules'  restaurant 
Henry  had  drunk  champagne  and,  because  of  his  misery  and 
confusion  there,  had  had  no  consciousness  of  flavour,  quantity 
or  consequences.  It  was  certainly  the  champagne  that  lent 
"The  Pirate"  an  added  colour  and  splendour. 

As  the  boy  followed  Philip  into  Leicester  Square  he  felt 
that  any  achievement  would  be  now  possible  to  him,  any  sum- 
mit was  to  be  climbed  by  him.  The  lights  of  Leicester  Square 
circled  him  with  fire — at  the  flame's  heart  were  dark  trees 
soft  and  mysterious  against  the  night  sky — beneath  these 
trees,  guarded  by  the  flame,  the  Pirate  and  the  Princess  slept. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  now  he  understood  all  the  world, 
that  he  could  be  astonished  and  shocked  by  nothing,  that  every 
man,  be  he  never  so  degraded,  was  his  brother.  .  .  .  He  was 
unaware  that  his  tie  was  again  above  his  collar  and  his  shoe 
lace  unfastened.  He  strode  along,  thinking  to  himself :  "How 
glorious!  .  .  .  How  splendid!  .  .  .  How  glorious !" 

Philip,  too,  although  the  Empire  ballet  had  once  been  com- 


180  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

monplace  enough,  although,  moreover,  he  had  come  so  little 
a  time  ago  from  the  country  where  the  ballet  was  in  all  the 
world  supreme,  had  been  plunged  by  the  Pirate  into  a  most* 
sentimental  attitude  of  mind.  He  was  to-night  terribly  in  love 
with  Katherine,  and,  when  the  lights  had  been  turned  down 
and  the  easy,  trifling  music  had  floated  out  to  him,  caught 
him,  soothed  and  whispered  to  him,  he  had  held  Katherine 
in  his  arms,  her  cheek  touching  his,  her  heart  beating  with 
his,  his  hand  against  her  hair. 

Her  confidence  in  him  that,  at  other  times,  frightened  him, 
to-night  thrilled  him  with  a  delicious  pleasure.  His  old  dis- 
trust of  himself  yielded,  to-night,  to  a  fine,  determined  assur- 
ance. "I  will  be  all  that  she  thinks  I  am.  She  shall  see  how 
I  love  her.  They  shall  all  see." 

"I  think  we'll  go  down  into  the  Grill  Room,"  said  Philip, 
when  they  arrived  at  the  Carlton,  "We  can  talk  better 
there." 

It  was  all  the  same  to  Henry,  who  was  busy  feasting  with 
the  Pirate  upon  the  Adriatic  Island,  with  the  Princess  danc- 
ing for  them  on  the  golden  sand.  They  found  a  quiet  little 
table  in  that  corner  which  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  places  in 
London,  so  retired  from  the  world  are  you  and  yet  so  easy  is 
it  to  see  all  that  goes  on  amongst  your  friends,  enemies  and 
neighbours. 

"Oysters?  .  .  .  Must  have  oysters,  Henry.  .  .  .  Then 
grilled  bones  .  .  .  then  we'll  see.  Whisky  and  soda — split 
soda,  waiter,  please.  .  .  ." 

Henry  had  never  eaten  oysters  before,  and  he  would  have 
drunk  his  whisky  with  them  had  Philip  not  stopped  him. 
"Never  drink  whisky  with  oysters — you'd  die — you  would 
really." 

Henry  did  not  like  oysters  very  much,  but  he  would  have 
suffered  the  worst  kind  of  torture  rather  than  say  so.  The 
bones  came,  and  the  whisky  with  them.  Henry  drank  his 
first  glass  very  quickly  in  order  to  show  that  he  was  quite  used 
to  it  He  thought,  as  he  looked  across  the  table,  that  Philip 


LIFE  AND  HENKY  181 

was  the  finest  fellow  in  the  world ;  no  one  had  ever  been  so 
kind  to  him  as  Philip — How  could  he  ever  have  disliked 
Philip  ?  Philip  was  going  to  marry  Katherine,  and  was  the 
only  man  in  all  the  world  who  was  worthy  of  her.  Henry  felt 
a  burning  desire  to  confide  in  Philip,  to  tell  him  all  his  most 
secret  thoughts,  his  ambitions,  his  troubles.  .  .  . 

He  drank  his  second  glass  of  whisky,  and  began  a  long, 
rather  stumbling  narration. 

"You  know,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am  to  you  for  giving  me  such  a  ripping  evening.  All  this 
time  .  .  .  I've  been  very  rude  sometimes,  I  expect  .  .  .  you 
must  have  thought  me  a  dreadful  ass,  and  I've  wanted  so 
much  to  show  you  that  I'm  not." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Philip,  who  was  thinking  of  Kath- 
erine. 

"No,  it  isn't  all  right,"  said  Henry,  striking  the  table  with 
his  fist.  "I  must  tell  you,  now  that  you've  been  so  kind  to 
me.  You  see  I'm  shy  really,  I  wouldn't  like  most  people  to 
know  that,  but  I  am.  I'm  shy  because  I'm  so  unfortunate 
about  little  things.  You  must  have  noticed  long  ago  how 
unlucky  I  am.  Nothing  ever  goes  right  with  me  at  home. 
I'm  always  untidy  and  my  clothes  go  to  pieces  and  I  break 
things.  People  seem  to  think  I  want  to  .  .  ."  His  voice 
was  fierce  for  a  moment. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Philip  again.  "Have  some  more 
bone." 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Henry,  staring  darkly  in  front  of 
him.  "I  don't  know  why  I'm  so  unfortunate,  because  I  know 
I  could  do  things  if  I  were  given  a  chance,  but  no  one  will 
ever  let  me  try.  What  do  they  keep  me  at  home  for  when 
I  ought  to  be  at  Oxford?  Why  don't  they  settle  what  I'm 
going  to  be  ?  It's  quite  time  for  them  to  make  up  their  mind. 
.  .  .  It's  a  shame,  a  shame.  .  .  ." 

"So  it  is.  So  it  is,"  said  Philip.  "But  it  will  be  all  right 
if  you  wait  a  bit." 

"I'm  always  told  I've  got  to  wait,"  said  Henry  fiercely. 


182  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

<rWhat  about  other  fellows  ?  No  one  tells  them  to  wait.  .  .  . 
I'm  nineteen,  and  there  are  plenty  of  men  of  nineteen  I  know 
who  are  doing  all  kinds  of  things.  I  can't  even  dress  properly 
— soot  and  fluff  always  come  and  settle  on  my  clothes  rather 
than  on  anyone  else's.  I've  often  noticed  it.  Then  people 
laugh  at  me  for  nothing.  They  don't  laugh  at  other  men." 

"You  oughtn't  to  care,"  said  Philip. 

"I  try  not  to,  but  you  can't  help  it  if  it  happens  often." 

"What  do  you  want  to  be?"  said  Philip.  "What  would 
you  like  to  do  ?" 

"I  don't  mind;  anything,"  said  Henry,  "if  only  I  did  it 
properly.  I'd  rather  be  a  waiter  who  didn't  make  a  fool  of 
himself  than  what  I  am.  I'd  like  to  be  of  use.  I'd  like  to 
make  people  proud  of  me.  I'd  like  Katherine — " 

At  that  name  he  suddenly  stopped  and  was  silent. 

"Well?"  said  Philip.  "What  about  Katherine?  .  .  . 
Have  some  more  whisky.  .  .  .  Waiter,  coffee." 

"I  want  to  do  something,"  said  Henry,  "to  make  Katherine 
proud  of  me.  I  know  it  must  be  horrible  for  her  to  have  a 
brother  whom  everyone  laughs  at.  It's  partly  because  of  her 
that  I'm  so  shy.  But  she  understands  me  as  none  of  the  others 
do.  She  knows  I've  got  something  in  me.  She  believes  in  me. 
She's  the  only  one.  ...  I  can  talk  to  her.  She  understands 
when  I  say  that  I  want  to  do  something  in  the  world.  She 
doesn't  laugh.  And  I'd  die  for  her.  .  .  .  Here,  now,  if  it 
was  necessary.  And  I'll  tell  you  one  thing.  I  didn't  like  you 
at  first.  When  you  got  engaged  to  Katherine  I  hated  it  until 
I  saw  that  she'd  probably  have  to  be  engaged  to  someone,  and 
it  might  as  well  be  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Philip,  laughing. 

"I  saw  how  happy  you  made  her.  It's  hard  on  all  of  us 
who've  known  her  so  long,  but  we  don't  mind  that  ...  if 
you  do  make  her  happy." 

"So,"  said  Philip,  "it's  only  by  the  family's  permission 
that  I  can  keep  her  ?" 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Henry.     "Of  course 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  183 

she's  her  own  mistress.  She  can  do  what  she  likes.  But  she 
is  fond  of  us.  And  I  don't  think — if  it  came  to  it — that  she'd 
ever  do  anything  to  hurt  us." 

"If  it  came  to  what  ?"  said  Philip. 

But  Henry  shook  his  head.  "Oh!  I'm  only  talking.  I 
meant  that  we're  fonder  of  one  another  as  a  family  than 
people  outside  can  realise.  We  don't  seem  to  be  if  you  watch 
us,  but  if  it  came  to  pulling  us  apart — to — to — taking  Kath- 
erine  away,  for  instance,  it — it  wouldn't  be  easy." 

"Another  soda,  waiter,"  said  Philip.  "But  I  don't  want  to 
take  Katherine  away.  I  don't  want  there  to  be  any  difference 
to  anyone." 

"There  must  be  a  difference,"  said  Henry,  shaking  his 
head  and  looking  very  solemn.  "If  it  had  been  Millie  it 
mightn't  have  mattered  so  much,  because  she's  been  away  a 
lot  as  it  is,  but  with  Katherine — you  see,  we've  always 
thought  that  whatever  misfortune  happened,  Katherine 
would  be  there — and  now  we  can't  think  that  any  longer." 

"But  that,"  said  Philip,  who'd  drunk  quite  a  number  of 
whiskies  by  this  time,  "was  very  selfish  of  you.  You  couldn't 
expect  her  never  to  marry." 

"We  never  thought  about  it,"  said  Henry.  He  spoke 
now  rather  confusedly  and  at  random.  "We  aren't  the  sort 
of  people  who  look  ahead.  I  suppose  we  haven't  got  much 
imagination  as  a  family.  None  of  the  Trenchards  have. 
That's  why  we're  fond  of  one  another  and  can't  imagine 
ever  not  being." 

Philip  leant  forward.  "Look  here,  Henry,  I  want  us  to 
be  friends — real  friends.  I  love  Katherine  so  much  that  I 
would  do  anything  for  her.  If  she's  happy  you  won't  grudge 
her  to  me,  will  you?  .  .  .  I've  felt  a  little  that  you,  some 
of  you,  don't  trust  me,  that  you  don't  understand  me.  But 
I'm  just  what  I  seem:  I'm  not  worthy  of  Katherir^.  I  can't 
think  why  she  cares  for  me,  but,  as  she  does,  it's  better,  isn't 
it,  that  she  should  be  happy  ?  If  you'd  all  help  me,  if  you'd 
all  be  friends  with  me — " 


184  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

He  had  for  some  minutes  been  conscious  that  there  was 
something  odd  about  Henry.  He  had  been  intent  on  his 
own  thoughts,  but  behind  them  something  had  claimed  his 
attention.  Henry  was  now  waving  a  hand  in  the  air  vaguely, 
he  was  looking  at  his  half-empty  glass  with  an  intent  and 
puzzled  eye.  Philip  broke  off  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence, 
arrested  suddenly  by  this  strangeness  of  Henry's  eye,  which 
was  now  fixed  and  staring,  now  red  and  wandering.  He 
gazed  at  Henry,  a  swift,  terrible  suspicion  striking  him. 
Henry,  with  a  face  desperately  solemn,  gazed  back  at  him. 
The  boy  then  tried  to  speak,  failed,  and  very  slowly  a  large 
fat  tear  trembled  down  his  cheek. 

"I'm  trying — I'm  trying,"  he  began.  "I'll  be  your  friend 
— always — I'll  get  up — stand — explain.  .  .  .  I'll  make  a 
speech,"  he  suddenly  added. 

"Good  Lord !"  Philip  realised  with  a  dismay  pricked  with 
astonishment,  "the  fellow's  drunk."  It  had  happened  so 
swiftly  that  it  was  as  though  Henry  were  acting  a  part. 
Five  minutes  earlier  Henry  had  apparently  been  perfectly 
sober.  Ho  had  drunk  three  whiskies  and  sodas.  Philip  had 
never  imagined  this  catastrophe,  and  now  his  emotions  were 
a  confused  mixture  of  alarm,  annoyance,  impatience  and  dis- 
gust at  his  own  imperception. 

Whatever  Henry  had  been  five  minutes  ago,  there  was  no 
sort  of  question  about  him  now. 

"Someone's  taken  off  my — b-boots,"  he  confided  very  con- 
fidentially to  Philip.  "Who— did?" 

The  one  clear  thought  in  Philip's  brain  was  that  he  must 
get  Henry  home  quietly — from  the  Carlton  table  to  Henry's 
bed,  and  with  as  little  noise  as  possible.  Only  a  few  people 
now  remained  in  the  Grill  Room.  He  summoned  the  waiter, 
paid  the  bill.  Henry  watched  him. 

"You  must — tell  them — about  my  boots,"  he  said.  "It's 
absurd." 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Philip.  "They've  put  them  on  again 
now.  It's  time  for  us  to  be  moving."  He  was  relieved  to 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  185 

see  that  Henry  rose  at  once  and,  holding  for  a  moment  on 
to  the  table,  steadied  himself.  His  face,  very  solemn  and 
sad,  with  its  large,  mournful  eyes  and  a  lock  of  hair  tumbling 
forward  over  his  forehead,  was  both  ridiculous  and  pathetic, 

Philip  took  his  arm. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.    "Time  to  go  home." 

Henry  followed  very  meekly,  allowed  them  to  put  on  his 
coat,  was  led  upstairs  and  into  a  "taxi." 

Then  he  suddenly  put  his  head  between  his  hands  and 
began  to  sob.  He  would  say  nothing,  but  only  sobbed  hope- 
lessly. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Philip,  as  though  he  were  speaking 
to  a  child  of  five.  "There's  nothing  to  cry  about.  You'll 
be  home  in  a  moment."  He  was  desperately  annoyed  at  the 
misfortune.  Why  could  he  not  have  seen  that  Henry  was 
drinking  too  much  ?  But  Henry  had  drunk  so  little.  Then 
he  had  had  champagne  at  dinner.  He  wasn't  used  to  it. 
Philip  cursed  his  own  stupidity.  Now  if  they  made  a  noise 
on  the  way  to  Henry's  room  there  might  follow  fatal  conse- 
quences. If  anyone  should  see  them! 

Henry's  sobs  had  ceased :  he  seemed  to  be  asleep.  Philip 
shook  his  arm.  "Look  here !  We  must  take  care  not  to  wake 
anyone.  Here  we  are !  Quietly  now,  and  where's  your  key  ?" 

"Wash  key  ?"  said  Henry. 

Philip  had  a  horrible  suspicion  that  Henry  had  forgotten 
his  key.  He  searched.  Ah!  there  it  was  in  the  waistcoat 
pocket. 

Henry  put  his  amis  round  Philip's  neck. 

"They've  turned  the  roa'  upside  down,"  he  whispered  con- 
fidentially. "We  mustn't  lose  each  other." 

They  entered  the  dark  hall.  Philip  with  one  arm  round 
Henry's  waist.  Henry  sat  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs. 

"I'll  shtay  here  to-night,"  he  said.  "It's  shafer,"  and  was 
instantly  asleep.  Philip  lifted  him,  then  with  Henry's  boots 
tapping  the  stairs  at  each  step,  they  moved  upwards.  Henry 
was  heavy,  and  at  the  top  Philip  had  to  pause  for  breath. 


186  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Suddenly  the  boy  slipped  from  his  arms  and  fell  with  a 
crash.  The  whole  house  re-echoed.  Philip's  heart  stopped 
beating,  and  his  only  thought  was,  "Now  I'm  done.  They'll 
all  be  here  in  a  moment.  They'll  drive  me  away.  Katherine 
will  never  speak  to  me  again."  A  silence  followed  abys- 
mally deep,  only  broken  by  some  strange  snore  that  came 
from  the  heart  of  the  house  (as  though  it  were  the  house 
that  was  snoring)  and  the  ticking  of  two  clocks  that,  in  their 
race  against  one  another,  whirred  and  chuckled. 

Philip  picked  Henry  up  again  and  proceeded.  He  found 
the  room,  pushed  open  the  door,  closed  it  and  switched  on  the 
light.  He  then  undressed  Henry,  folding  the  clothes  care- 
fully, put  upon  him  his  pyjamas,  laid  him  in  bed  and  tucked 
him  up.  Henry,  his  eyes  closed  as  though  by  death,  snored 
heavily.  .  .  . 

Philip  turned  the  light  out,  crept  into  the  passage,  listened, 
stole  downstairs,  let  himself  into  the  Square,  where  he  stood 
for  a  moment,  in  the  cold  night  air,  the  only  living  thing  in 
a  sleeping  world,  then  hastened  away. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  he  thought,  "we've  escaped."  He  had 
not  escaped.  Aunt  Aggie,  a  fantastic  figure  in  a  long  blue 
dressing-gown,  roused  by  Henry's  fall,  had  watched,  from 
her  bedroom  door,  the  whole  affair.  She  waited  until  she  had 
heard  the  hall-door  close,  then  stole  down  and  locked  it,  stole 
up  again  and  disappeared  silently  into  her  room. 

When  Henry  woke  in  the  morning  his  headache  was  very 
different  from  any  headache  that  he  had  ever  endured  be- 
fore. His  first  thought  was  that  he  could  never  possibly  get 
up,  but  would  lie  there  all  day.  His  second  that,  whatever 
he  did,  he  must  rouse  suspicion  in  no  one,  his  third  that  he 
really  had  been  terribly  drunk  last  night,  and  remembered 
nothing  after  his  second  whisky  at  the  Carlton,  his  fourth 
that  someone  must  have  put  him  to  bed  last  night,  because 
his  clothes  were  folded  carefully,  whereas  it  was  his  own 
custom  always  to  fling  them  about  the  room.  At  this  moment 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  187 

Rocket  (who  always  took  upon  himself  the  rousing  of  Henry) 
entered  with  hot  water. 

"Time  to  get  up,  sir,"  he  said.  "Breakfast-bell  in  twenty 
minutes.  Bath  quite  ready." 

Henry  watched.  "He'll  suspect  something  when  he  sees 
those  clothes,"  he  thought.  But  Rocket,  apparently,  sus- 
pected nothing.  Henry  got  up,  had  his  bath  and  slowly 
dressed.  His  headache  was  quite  horrible,  being  a  cold  head- 
ache with  a  heavy  weight  of  pain  on  his  skull  and  a  taste  in 
his  mouth  of  mustard  and  bad  eggs.  He  felt  that  he  could 
not  possibly  disguise  from  the  world  that  he  was  unwell. 
Looking  in  the  glass  he  saw  that  his  complexion  was  yellow 
and  muddy,  but  then  it  was  never,  at  any  time,  very  splen- 
did. He  looked  cross  and  sulky,  but  then  that  would  not  sur- 
prise anyone.  He  went  downstairs  and  passed  successfully 
through  the  ordeal :  fortunately  Aunt  Aggie  was  in  bed.  Only 
Millie,  laughing,  said  to  him:  "You  don't  look  as  though 
evenings  with  Philip  suited  you,  Henry — " 

(How  he  hated  Millie  when  she  teased  him !) 

"Well,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard  placidly,  "there 
must  be  thunder  about — thunder  about.  I  always  feel  it 
in  my  back.  George  dear,  do  put  that  paper  down,  your 
tea's  quite  cold." 

"Well,"  said  George  Trenchard,  looking  up  from  the 
'Morning  Post'  and  beaming  upon  everyone,  "what  did  Philip 
do  with  you  last  night,  Henry.  Show  you  the  town — 
eh?" 

"We  had  a  very  pleasant  evening,  thank  you,  father,"  said 
Henry.  "We  went  to  the  Empire." 

"You  came  in  very  quietly.  I  didn't  hear  you.  Did  you 
hear  him,  Harriet  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard.  "I  do  hope  you  locked  the 
front  door,  Henry." 

"Oh,  yes,  mother.    That  was  all  right,"  he  said  hurriedly. 

"Well,  dear,  I'm  very  glad  you  had  a  pleasant  evening. 
It  was  kind  of  Philip — very  kind  of  Philip.  Yes,  that's 


188  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Aunt  Aggie's  tray,  Katie  dear.  I  should  put  a  little  more 
marmalade — and  that  bit  of  toast,  the  other's  rather  dry — 
yes,  the  other's  rather  dry.  Poor  Aggie  says  she  had  a  dis- 
turbed night — slept  very  badly.  I  shouldn't  wonder  whether 
it's  the  thunder.  I  always  know  by  my  back.  Thank  you, 
Katie.  Here's  a  letter  from  Rose  Faunder,  George,  and  she 
says,  'etc.,  etc.' ' 

After  breakfast  Henry  escaped  into  the  drawing-room ;  he 
sank  into  his  favourite  chair  by  the  fire,  which  was  burning 
with  a  cold  and  glassy  splendour  that  showed  that  it  had 
just  been  lit.  The  room  was  foggy,  dim  and  chill,  exactly 
suited  to  Henry,  who,  with  his  thin  legs  stretched  out  in  front 
of  him  and  his  headache  oppressing  him  with  a  reiterated  em- 
phasis as  though  it  were  some  other  person  insisting  on  his 
attention,  stared  before  him  and  tried  to  think. 

He  wanted  to  think  everything  out,  but  could  consider 
nothing  clearly.  It  was  disgusting  of  him  to  have  been  drunk, 
but  it  was  Philip's  fault — that  was  his  main  conclusion. 
Looking  back,  everything  seemed  to  be  Philip's  fault — even 
the  disaster  to  himself.  There  was  in  Henry  a  strange  puri- 
tanical, old-maidish  strain,  which,  under  the  persuasion  of 
the  headache,  was  allowed  full  freedom.  Philip's  intimacy 
with  those  women,  Philip's  attitude  to  drink,  to  ballets,  even 
to  shirt  studs,  an  attitude  of  indifference  bred  of  long  cus- 
tom, seemed  to  Henry  this  morning  sinister  and  most  suspi- 
cious. Philip  had  probably  been  laughing  at  him  all  the 
evening,  thought  him  a  fool  for  getting  drunk  so  easily  (ter- 
rible idea  this),  would  tell  other  people  about  his  youth  and 
inexperience.  Thoughts  like  these  floated  through  Henry's 
aching  head,  but  he  could  not  really  catch  them.  Everything 
escaped  him.  He  could  only  stare  into  the  old  mirror,  with 
its  reflection  of  green  carpet  and  green  wall-paper,  and  fancy 
that  he  was  caught,  held  prisoner  by  it,  condemned  to  re- 
main inside  it  for  ever,  with  an  aching  head  and  an  irri- 
tated conscience. 

He  was  ill,  he  was  unhappy,  and  yet  through  it  all  ran  the 


LIFE  AND  HEKRY  189 

thought:  "You  are  a  man  now.  You  have  received  your 
freedom.  You'll  never  be  a  boy  again.  .  .  ." 

He  was  aroused  from  his  thoughts  by  the  sudden  vision  of 
Katherine,  who  was,  he  found,  sitting  on  the  elbow  of  his 
armchair  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Hullo,"  he  said,  letting  her  take  his  hand.  "I  didn't 
hear  you  come  in." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  in  here,"  she  answered.  "You 
were  hidden  by  the  chair.  I  was  looking  for  you,  though." 

"Why?"  said  Henry,  suspiciously. 

"Oh,  nothing — except  that  I  wanted  to  hear  about  last 
night.  Did  you  enjoy  it  ?" 

"Very  much." 

"Was  Philip  nice?" 

"Very  nice." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Oh,  we  dined  at  Jules,  went  to  the  Empire,  had  supper 
at  the  Carlton,  and  came  home."  He  looked  at  Katherine'a 
eyes,  felt  that  he  was  a  surly  brute  and  added :  "The  ballet 
was  called  'The  Pirate'.  I  thought  it  was  fine,  but  it  was 
the  first  one  I'd  seen — I  don't  think  Philip  cared  much  for 
it,  but  then  he's  seen  so  many  in  Moscow,  where  they  go  on 
all  night  and  are  perfectly  splendid." 

Katherine's  hand  pressed  his  shoulder  a  little,  and  he,  in 
response,  drew  closer  to  her. 

"I'm  glad  Philip  was  nice  to  you,"  she  said,  gazing  into 
the  fire.  "I  want  you  two  to  be  great  friends."  There 
sprang  then  a  new  note  into  her  voice,  as  though  she  were 
resolved  to  say  something  that  had  been  in  her  mind  a  long 
time.  "Henry — tell  me — quite  honestly,  I  want  to  know. 
Have  I  been  a  pig  lately?  A  pig  about  everybody.  Since 
I've  been  engaged  have  I  neglected  you  all  and  been  different 
to  you  all  and  hurt  you  all  ?" 

"No,"  said  Henry,  slowly.  "Of  course  you  haven't  .  .  . 
but  it  has  been  different  a  little — it  couldn't  help  being." 

"What  has?" 


190  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Well,  of  course,  we  don't  mean  so  much  to  you  now. 
How  can  we  ?  I  suppose  what  Philip  said  last  night  is  true, 
that  we've  been  all  rather  selfish  about  you,  and  now  we're 
suffering  for  it." 

"Did  Philip  say  that?" 

"Yes — or  something  like  it." 

"It  isn't  true.  It  simply  shows  that  he  doesn't  under- 
stand what  we  all  are  to  one  another.  I  suppose  we're  dif- 
ferent. I've  been  feeling,  since  I've  been  engaged,  that  we 
must  be  different.  Philip  is  so  continually  surprised  at  the 
things  we  do." 

Henry  frowned.  "He  needn't  be.  There's  nothing  very 
wonderful  in  our  all  being  fond  of  you." 

She  got  up  from  the  chair  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  room.  Henry's  eyes  followed  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  she  said  suddenly.  "But  dur- 
ing these  last  weeks  it's  as  though  you  were  all  hiding  some- 
thing from  me.  Even  you  and  Millie.  Of  course  I  know 
that  Aunt  Aggie  hates  Philip.  She  never  can  hide  her  feel- 
ings. But  mother  .  .  ."  Katherine  broke  out.  "Oh !  it's  all 
so  silly !  Why  can't  we  all  be  natural  ?  It's  unfair  to  Philip. 
He's  ready  for  anything,  he  wants  to  be  one  of  us,  and  you, 
all  of  you — " 

"It  isn't  quite  fair,"  said  Henry  slowly,  "to  blame  only  us. 
We've  all  been  very  nice  to  Philip,  I  think.  I  know  Aunt 
Betty  and  Millie  and  father  like  him  very  much." 

"And  you  ?"  said  Katherine. 

"I  don't  think  I'd  like  anyone  who  was  going  to  take 
you  away." 

"But  he  isn't  going  to  take  me  away.  That's  where  you're 
all  so  wrong.  He's  just  going  to  be  one  more  of  the  family." 

Henry  said  nothing. 

Katherine  then  cried  passionately:  "Ah,  you  don't  know 
him !  you  simply  don't  know  him !"  She  stopped,  her  eyes 
shining,  her  whole  body  stirred  by  her  happiness.  She  came 
over  and  stood  close  to  him:  "Henry,  whatever  happens, 


LIFE  AND  HENKY  191 

whatever  happens,  nothing  can  take  me  away  from  you  and 
mother  and  the  rest.  Nor  from  Garth.  ...  If  you're  sure 
of  that  then  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  Philip." 

Henry  looked  up  at  her.  "Suppose,  Katherine — just  sup- 
pose— that  he  insisted  on  your  going,  leaving  us  all,  leaving 
Garth,  going  right  away  somewhere.  What  would  you  do  ?" 

Katherine  smiled  with  perfect  confidence.  "He  wouldn't 
insist  on  anything  that  would  make  me  so  unhappy — or  any- 
one unhappy.  All  he  wants  is  that  everyone  should  like 
everyone  else,  and  that  no  one  should  be  hurt." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Henry,  "whether  it  isn't  that  sort 
who  hurt  people  most  in  the  end."  He  took  her  hand  in  his. 
"He  can  do  anything  he  likes,  Katherine,  anything,  and  I'll 
adore  him  madly,  so  long  as  he  doesn't  hurt  you.  If  he 
does  that — " 

Aunt  Aggie,  standing  in  the  doorway  with  the  look  of 
one  who  must  live  up  to  having  had  breakfast  in  bed,  inter- 
rupted him: 

"Ah,  Katherine,  there  you  are.  The  last  thing  I  want  is 
to  give  trouble  to  anyone,  but  I  passed  so  poor  a  night  that 
I  feel  quite  unequal  to  marking  those  pillow-cases  that  I 
offered  yesterday  to  do  for  your  mother.  I  was  so  anxious 
yesterday  afternoon  to  help  her,  as  indeed  I  always  am,  but 
of  course  I  couldn't  foretell  that  my  night  would  be  so  dis- 
turbed. I  wonder  whether  you — " 

"Why,  of  course,  Aunt  Aggie,"  said  Katherine. 

Henry's  morning  reflections  resolved  themselves  finally 
into  the  decision  that  to  continue  his  emancipation  he  would, 
definitely,  before  the  day  closed,  penetrate  into  the  heart 
of  his  Club.  He  found,  when  he  arrived  there,  that  he  was 
so  deeply  occupied  with  thoughts  of  Katherine,  Philip  and 
himself  that  he  knew  no  fear.  He  boldly  passed  the  old  man 
in  the  hall  who  exactly  resembled  a  goat,  climbed  the  stairs 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  doing  it  all  his  life,  and  dis- 
covered a  room  with  a  fire,  a  table  with  papers,  some  book- 
cases with  ancient  books,  and  Seymour.  That  gentleman  was 


192  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

standing  before  the  fire,  a  smile  of  beaming  self-satisfaction 
upon  bis  red  fat  face ;  he  greeted  Henry  with  that  altruistic 
welcome  that  was  peculiarly  his  own.  A  manner  that  im- 
plied that  God  had  sent  him  especially  into  the  world  to  show 
other  men  how  to  be  jolly,  optimistic,  kind-hearted  and 
healthy. 

"Why,  who  ever  expected  to  see  you  here?"  he  cried. 
"You're  yellow  about  the  gills,  my  son.  Have  a  whisky  and 
soda." 

"!N"o,  thank  you,"  said  Henry,  with  an  internal  shudder. 
"I  thought  I'd  just  look  in." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Seymour.  "How  jolly  to  see 
you!" 

They  drew  their  chairs  in  front  of  the  fire  and  talked — 
at  least  Seymour  talked.  He  told  Henry  what  a  lucky  fel- 
low he,  Seymour,  was  how  jolly  the  world  was,  how  splendid 
the  weather  was.  He  let  slip  by  accident  the  facts  that  three 
publishers  were  fighting  for  his  next  book,  that  America  had 
gone  mad  about  his  last  one  ("although  I  always  said,  you 
know,  that  to  be  popular  in  America  was  a  sure  sign  that  one 
was  no  good"),  and  that  he'd  overheard  some  woman  at  a 
party  saying  that  he  was  the  most  interesting  young  man  of 
the  day.  He  told  these  tales  with  an  air  as  though  he  would 
imply — "How  absurd  these  people  are!  How  ridiculous!" 

Then,  suddenly,  he  paused.  It  seemed  that  he  had  re- 
membered something. 

"By  the  way,  Trenchard — I  knew  there  was  something. 
There's  a  fellow  in  this  Club,  just  been  lunching  with  him. 
I  don't  expect  he's  gone.  I  want  you  to  meet  him,  I  was 
thinking  about  you  at  luncheon.  He's  just  come  from  Mos- 
cow, where  he's  been  two  years." 

"Moscow?"  said  Henry. 

"Yes.  I'll  go  and  find  him.  He  may  have  left  if  I  don't 
go  now." 

Seymour  hurried  away  to  return  an  instant  later  with  a 
very-much  dressed  young  man  in  a  purple  suit  and  a  high, 


LIFE  AND  HENRY  193 

shrill  voice.  He  gave  Henry  a  languid  finger,  said  that  he 
wouldn't  mind  a  drink,  and  sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire. 
Seymour  began  a  fresh  monologue,  the  young  man  (Morri- 
son was  his  name)  drank  his  whisky  with  a  delicate  foreign 
attitude  which  Henry  greatly  admired,  said  at  last  that 
he  must  be  going.  It  was  only  then  that  Henry  plucked  up 
courage. 

"I  say — Seymour  tells  me  you've  just  come  from  Mos- 
cow." 

"Yes — damned  rotten  town,"  said  Morrison,  "two  years 
of  it — nearly  killed  me." 

"Did  you  happen  to  know,"  said  Henry,  "a  man  there 
called  Mark?" 

"What!  Phil  Mark!  Think  I  did!  ...  Everyone  knew 
Phil  Mark !  Hot  stuff,  my  word !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?"  said  Henry. 

Mr.  Morrison  looked  at  Henry  with  curiosity,  stared  into 
his  glass,  found  that  it  was  empty,  rose  and  brushed  his  trou- 
sers. 

"Went  the  pace — had  a  mistress  there  for  years — a  girl 
out  of  the  ballet.  Everyone  knew  about  it — had  a  kid,  but 
the  kid  died  .  .  .  conceited  sort  o'  feller — no  one  liked  him. 
Know  I  didn't." 

"It  can't  have  been  the  same  man,"  said  Henry  slowly. 

"No?  daresay  not,"  said  Morrison  languidly,  "name  of 
Philip  though.  Short  square  feller,  bit  fat,  black  hair;  he 
was  in  Maddox  and  Custom's — made  a  bit  of  money  they 
said.  He  chucked  the  girl  and  came  to  England — here  some- 
where now  I  believe.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  Henry  and  Seymour,  found  them  silent, 
disliked  the  stare  in  Henry's  eyes,  saw  a  speck  of  dust  on  his 
waistcoat,  was  very  serious  about  this,  found  the  silence  un- 
pleasant and  broke  away — 

"Well,  so  long,  you  fellows.  .  .  .  Must  be  toddling." 

He  wandered  out,  his  bent  shoulders  expressing  great  con- 
tempt for  his  company. 


194  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Seymour  had  watched  his  young  friend's  face.  He  was, 
for  once,  at  a  loss.  He  had  known  what  would  occur;  he 
had  produced  Morrison  for  no  other  purpose.  He  had  hated 
Mark  since  that  day  at  the  Trenchard's  house  with  all  the 
unresting  hatred  of  one  whose  whole  peace  of  mind  depends 
on  the  admiration  of  others.  Morrison  had  told  him  stories 
about  Mark:  he  did  not,  himself,  wish  to  inform  Henry, 
because  his  own  acquaintance  with  the  family  and  knowledge 
of  Miss  Trenchard's  engagement  made  it  difficult,  but  he  had 
no  objection  at  all  to  Morrison's  agency.  He  was  frightened 
now  at  Henry's  white  face  and  staring  eyes. 

"Did  you  know  this?"  Henry  said. 

"  Ton  my  word,  Trenchard — no  idea.  Morrison  was 
talking  the  other  day  about  Englishmen  in  Moscow,  and  men- 
tioned Mark,  I  think,  but  I  never  connected  him.  If  I'd 
thought  he  was  coming  out  with  it  like  that  of  course  I'd  have 
stopped  it,  but  he  didn't  know — " 

"He's  lying." 

"Don't  know  why  he  should.  He'd  no  idea  your  sister  was 
engaged.  It's  a  bit  rotten,  isn't  it  ?  I'm  awfully  sorry — " 

Henry  stared  at  him.  "I  believe  you  did  know :  I  believe 
you  meant  him  to  tell  me.  That's  what  you  brought  him  for 
— you  hate  Mark  anyway."  Henry  laughed,  then  broke  off, 
stared  about  him  as  though  he  did  not  know  where  he  was, 
and  rushed  from  the  room.  He  did  not  know  through  what 
streets  he  passed;  he  saw  no  people,  heard  no  noise;  was 
conscious  neither  of  light  nor  darkness.  He  knew  that  it  was 
true.  Mark  was  a  blackguard.  Katherine — Katherine.  .  .  . 

As  he  crossed  the  bridge  in  St.  James'  Park  he  tumbled 
against  a  man  and  knocked  off  his  hat.  He  did  not  stop  to 
apologise.  What  was  he  to  do  ?  What  was  he  to  do  ?  Why 
had  it  been  he  who  had  heard  this? 

In  the  dark  hall  of  the  house  he  saw  Katherine.  She 
spoke  to  him;  he  tore  past  her,  tumbling  upstairs,  running 
down  the  passage  as  though  someone  pursued  him.  His  bed- 
room door  banged  behind  him. 


CHAPTEK  IV 

GAETII  IN  BOSELANDS 

PHILIP,  on  the  day  following  his  evening  with  Henry, 
left  London  to  spend  three  weeks  with  some  relations 
•  who  lived  near  Manchester.     This  was  the  first  parting  from 
him  that  Katherine  had  suffered  since  the  beginning  of  their 
engagement,  and  when  she  had  said  good-bye  to  him  at  the 
station,  she  seemed  to  return  through  empty  streets,  through 
a  town  without  colour  or  movement,  and  the  house,  when  she 
entered  it,  echoed,  through  its  desolate  rooms  and  passages, 
to  her  steps. 

She  resolved  at  once,  however,  that  now  was  the  time  to 
show  the  family  that  she  was  the  same  Katherine  as  she  had 
ever  been.  As  she  waited  for  a  little  in  her  bedroom,  finally 
dismissing  Philip's  presence  and  summoning  the  others,  she 
laughed  to  think  how  simply  now  she  would  brush  away  the 
little  distrusts  and  suspicions  that  seemed,  during  those  last 
weeks,  to  have  grown  about  her. 

"They  shall  know  Phil,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "They 
can't  help  loving  him  when  they  see  him  as  he  really  is.  Any- 
way, no  more  keeping  anything  back."  It  seemed  to  her, 
at  that  moment,  a  very  simple  thing  to  impart  her  happiness 
to  all  of  them.  She  had  no  fear  that  she  would  fail.  Then, 
almost  at  once,  the  most  delightful  thing  occurred. 

Two  or  three  days  after  Philip's  departure  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard,  alone  with  Katherine  in  the  dining-room  before  break- 
fast, said: 

"I've  written  to  Philip,  my  dear,  to  ask  him  to  go  down 
with  us  to  Garth." 

195 


196  THE  GREEN  MIfcROR 

Katherine's  eyes  shone  with  pleasure. 

"Mother!  .  .  .  How  delightful  of  you !  I  was  hoping  that 
perhaps  you  might  ask  him  later.  But  isn't  it  tiresome  to 
have  him  so  soon  ?" 

"No — my  dear — no.  Not  tiresome  at  all.  I  hope  he'll  be 
ahle  to  come." 

"Of  course  he'll  be  able  to  come,"  laughed  Katherine. 

"Yes — well — I've  written  to  ask  him.  We  go  down  on  the 
fifth  of  March.  Your  father  thinks  that's  the  best  day. 
Griffiths  writes  that  that  business  of  the  fences  in  Columb 
meadow  should  be  looked  into — Yes.  No,  Alice,  not  the  ham 
— tell  Grace  to  boil  two  more  eggs — not  enough — I'm  glad 
you're  pleased,  Katherine." 

Katherine  looked  up,  and  her  eyes  meeting  her  mother's, 
the  confidence  that  had  been  clouded  ever  since  that  fatal 
affair  with  the  hot-water  bottles  seemed  to  leap  into  life  be- 
tween them.  Mrs.  Trenchard  put  out  her  hand,  Katherine 
moved  forward,  but  at  that  moment  Aunt  Aggie  and  Aunt 
Betty  entered ;  breakfast  began. 

"I  believe,"  thought  Katherine,  "Aunt  Aggie  waits  outside 
the  door  and  chooses  her  moment.  She's  always  interrupt- 
ing. .  .  ."  The  fact  that  there  was  now  some  restraint  be- 
tween her  mother  and  herself  was  only  emphasised  the  more 
by  the  feeling  of  both  of  them  that  an  opportunity  had  been 
missed. 

And  why,  Katherine  wondered  afterwards,  had  her  mother 
asked  Philip  ?  If  he  had  been  invited  to  come  to  them  after 
Easter — but  now^  to  go  down  with  them,  as  one  of  the  fam- 
ily! Was  not  this  exactly  what  Katherine  had  been  desir- 
ing? And  yet  she  was  uncomfortable.  She  felt  sometimes 
now  that  her  mother,  who  had  once  been  her  other  self,  in 
whose  every  thought,  distress,  anxiety  she  had  shared,  was 
almost  a  stranger. 

"It's  just  as  though  there  were  ghosts  in  the  house,"  she 
thought.  As  she  went  to  bed  she  was,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  lonely.  She  longed  for  Philip  .  .  .  then  suddenly, 


GAETH  IN  KOSELANDS  197 

for  no  reason  that  she  could  name,  began  to  cry  and,  so  cry- 
ing, fell  asleep.  She  was  much  younger  than  everyone 
thought  her.  .  .  . 

Throughout  the  three  weeks  that  followed  she  felt  as 
though  she  were  beating  the  air.  Kachel  Seddon  had  taken 
her  husband  abroad.  There  was  no  one  to  whom  she  could 
speak.  She  wrote  to  Philip  every  day,  and  discovered  how 
useless  letters  were.  She  tried  to  approach  Millie,  but  found 
that  she  had  not  the  courage  to  risk  Millie's  frankness.  Her 
sister's  attitude  to  her  was :  "Dear  Katie,  let's  be  happy  and 
jolly  together  without  talking  about  it — it's  much  bet- 
ter. .  .  ."  There  had  been  a  time,  not  so  very  long  ago, 
when  they  had  told  one  another  everything.  Henry  was  the 
strangest  of  all.  He  removed  himself  from  the  whole  fam- 
ily, and  would  speak  to  no  one.  He  went  apparently  for  long 
solitary  walks.  Even  his  father  noticed  his  depression,  and 
decided  that  something  must  really  be  done  with  the  boy. 
"We  might  send  him  abroad  for  six  months — learn  some 
French  or  German  ..."  but  of  course  nothing  was  done. 

Aunt  Betty  was  the  only  entirely  satisfactory  member  of 
the  family.  She  frankly  revelled  in  the  romance  of  the 
whole  affair.  She  was  delighted  that  Katherine  had  fallen 
in  love  "with  such  a  fine  manly  fellow"  as  Philip.  Her  at- 
tention was  always  centred  upon  Katherine  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  others,  therefore  she  noticed  no  restraint  nor  awkward- 
ness. She  was  intensely  happy,  and  went  humming  about  the 
house  in  a  way  that  annoyed  desperately  her  sister  Aggie. 
She  even  wrote  a  little  letter  to  Philip,  beginning  "My  dear 
Boy,"  saying  that  she  thought  that  he'd  like  to  know  from 
one  of  the  family  that  Katherine  was  in  perfect  health  and 
looking  beautiful.  She  received  a  letter  from  Philip  that 
surprised  and  delighted  her  by  its  warmth  of  feeling.  This 
letter  was  the  cause  of  a  little  battle  with  Aggie. 

They  were  alone  together  in  Betty's  room  when  she  said, 
half  to  herself: 

"Such  a  delightful  letter  from  the  'dear  boy*." 


198  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"What  dear  boy  ?"  said  Aunt  Aggie  sharply. 

Aunt  Betty  started,  as  she  always  did  when  anyone  spoke 
to  her  sharply,  sucked  her  fingers,  and  then,  the  colour  mount- 
ing into  her  cheeks,  said: 

"Philip.    He's  written  to  me  from  Manchester." 

"I  do  think,  Betty,"  Aggie  answered,  "that  instead  of 
writing  letters  to  young  men  who  don't  want  them  you  might 
try  to  take  a  little  of  the  burden  of  this  house  off  my  shoul- 
ders. Now  that  Katherine  has  lost  all  her  common-sense 
I'm  supposed  to  do  everything.  I  don't  complain.  They 
wish  me  to  help  as  much  as  I  can,  but  I'm  far  from  strong, 
and  a  little  help  from  you  .  .  ." 

Then  Aunt  Betty,  with  the  effect  of  standing  on  her  toes, 
her  voice  quite  shrill  with  excitement,  spoke  to  her  sister 
as  she  had  never,  in  all  her  life,  spoken  to  anyone  before. 

"It's  too  bad,  Aggie.  I  used  to  think  that  you  were  fond 
of  Katherine,  that  you  wished  her  happiness — Now,  ever 
since  her  engagement,  you've  done  nothing  but  complain 
about  her.  Sometimes  I  think  you  really  want  to  see  her 
unhappy.  We  ought  to  be  glad,  you  and  I,  that  she's  found 
someone  who  will  make  her  happy.  It's  all  your  selfishness, 
Aggie;  just  because  you  don't  like  Philip  for  some  fancied 
reason  .  .  .  it's  unfair  and  wicked.  At  anyrate  to  me  you 
shan't  speak  against  Katherine  and  Philip.  ...  I  love 
Katherine,  even  though  you  don't." 

Now  it  happened  that,  as  I  have  said  elsewhere,  Aggie 
Trenchard  loved  her  niece  very  deeply.  It  was  a  love,  how- 
ever, that  depended  for  its  life  on  an  adequate  return.  "That 
young  man  has  turned  Katherine  against  me.  Ever  since  he 
first  came  into  the  house  I  knew  it."  Now  at  her  sister's 
accusation  her  face  grew  grey  and  her  hands  trembled. 

"Thank  you,  Betty.  I  don't  think  we'll  discuss  the  matter. 
Because  you're  blind  and  know  nothing  of  what  goes  on  under 
your  nose  is  no  reason  that  other  people's  sight  should  be 
blinded  too.  Can't  you  see  for  yourself  the  change  in  Kath- 
erine ?  If  you  loved  her  a  little  more  sensibly  than  you  do, 


GAKTH  IN  ROSELAISTDS  199 

instead  of  romancing  about  the  affair,  you'd  look  into  the 
future.  I  tell  you  that  the  moment  Philip  Mark  entered  this 
house  was  the  most  unfortunate  moment  in  Katherine's  life. 
Nothing  but  unhappiness  will  come  of  it.  If  you  knew  what 
I  know—" 

Aunt  Betty  was,  in  spite  of  herself,  struck  by  the  feeling 
and  softness  in  her  sister's  voice. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean  nothing.  I'm  right,  that's  all.  You're  a  silly, 
soft  fool,  Elizabeth,  and  so  you  always  were.  But  Harriet 
.  .  .  asking  him  to  go  down  to  Garth  with  us,  when  she  hates 
him  as  I  know  she  does !  /  don't  know  what  it  means.  Do* 
you  suppose  that  I  don't  love  Katherine  any  longer  ?  I  love 
her  so  much  that  I'd  like  to  strangle  Mr.  Philip  Mark  in  his 
sleep!" 

She  flung  from  the  room,  banging  the  door  behind  her. 

Philip  arrived  on  the  evening  before  the  departure  into  the 
country.  He  came  well  pleased  with  all  the  world,  because 
his  Manchester  relations  had  liked  him  and  he  had  liked  his 
Manchester  relations.  Viewed  from  that  happy  distance,  the 
Trenchards  had  been  bathed  in  golden  light.  He  reviewed  his 
recent  agitations  and  forebodings  with  laughter.  "Her  fam- 
ily," he  told  his  relations,  "are  a  bit  old-fashioned.  They've 
got  their  prejudices,  and  I  don't  think  they  liked  the  idea,  at 
first,  of  her  being  engaged — she's  so  valuable.  But  they're 
getting  used  to  it."  He  arrived  in  London  in  the  highest 
spirits,  greeted  Rocket  as  though  he  had  been  his  life-long 
friend,  and  going  straight  up  to  his  room  to  dress  for  dinner, 
thought  to  himself  that  he  really  did  feel  at  home  in  the  old 
house.  He  looked  at  his  fire,  at  the  cosy  shape  of  the  room, 
heard  a  purring,  contented  clock  ticking  away,  thought  for 
a  moment  of  Moscow,  with  its  puddles,  its  mud,  its  dark,  un- 
even streets,  its  country  roads,  its  weeks  of  rain. 

"No,  I've  found  my  place,"  he  thought,  "this  is  home." 
And  yet,  during  dinner,  his  uneasiness,  like  a  forgotten 


200  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ghost,  crept  back  to  him.  Henry  had  a  headache,  and  had 
gone  to  bed. 

"He's  not  been  very  well  lately,"  said  Aunt  Aggie  to 
Philip,  "that  evening  with  you  upset  him,  I  believe — over- 
excited him,  perhaps.  I'm  glad  you  liked  Manchester."  He 
could  not  deny  that  dinner  was  a  little  stiff.  He  was  suddenly 
aware  over  his  pudding  that  he  was  afraid  of  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard,  and  that  his  fear  of  her  that  had  been  vague  and 
nebulous  before  his  absence  was  now  sharp  and  defined. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  anything  but 
placid  and  contented,  like  the  rest  of  her. 

"More  pudding,  Philip  ?"  she  asked  him,  and  his  heart  beat 
as  though  he  had  received  a  challenge. 

Afterwards  in  the  drawing-room  he  thought  to  himself: 
"  'Tis  this  beastly  old  house.  It's  so  stuffy" — forgetting  that 
two  hours  earlier  it  had  seemed  to  welcome  him  home.  "We'll 
be  all  right  when  we  get  down  to  the  country,"  he  thought. 

Finally  he  said  good-night  to  Katherine  in  the  dark  little 
passage.  As  though  he  were  giving  himself  some  desperate 
reassurance,  he  caught  her  to  him  and  held  her  tightly  in  his 
arms: 

"Katie — darling,  have  you  missed  me?" 

"Missed  you?  I  thought  the  days  were  never  going  to 
pass." 

"Katie,  I  want  to  be  married,  here,  now,  to-night,  at  once. 
I  hate  this  waiting.  I  hate  it.  It's  impossible — " 

Katherine  laughed,  looking  up  into  his  eyes. 

"I  like  you  to  be  impatient  I'm  so  happy.  I  don't  think 
anything  can  ever  be  happier.  Besides,  you  know,"  and  her 
eyes  sparkled — "you  may  change — you  may  want  to  break 
it  off — and  then  think  how  glad  you'll  be  that  we  waited." 

He  held  her  then  so  fiercely  that  she  cried  out. 

"Don't  say  that — even  as  a  joke.  How  dare  you — even 
as  a  joke  ?  I  love  you — I  love  you — I  love  you."  He  kissed 
her  mouth  again  and  again,  then  suddenly,  with  a  little  move- 
ment of  tenderness,  stroked  her  hair  very  softly,  whispering 


GARTH  IN  ROSELANDS  201 

to  her,  "I  love  you — I  love  you — I  love  you — Oh !  how  I  love 
you!" 

That  night  she  was  so  happy  that  she  lay  for  many  hours 
staring  at  the  black  ceiling,  a  smile  on  her  lips.  He,  also, 
was  awake  until  the  early  morning.  .  .  . 

The  departure  to  the  station  was  a  terrific  affair.  There 
were  Mr.  Trenchard,  senior,  Great  Aunt  Sarah  (risen  from 
a  bed  of  sickness,  yellow  and  pinched  in  the  face,  very  yel- 
low and  pinched  in  the  temper,  and  deafer  than  deaf),  Aunt 
Aggie,  Aunt  Betty,  George  Trenchard,  Mrs.  Trenchard,  Mil- 
lie (very  pretty),  Henry  (very  sulky),  Katherine,  Philip, 
Rocket  and  Aunt  Sarah's  maid  (the  other  maids  had  left  by 
an  earlier  train) — twelve  persons.  The  train  to  be  caught 
was  the  eleven  o'clock  from  Paddington,  and  two  carriages 
had  been  reserved.  The  first  business  was  to  settle  old  Mr. 
Trenchard  and  Aunt  Sarah.  They  were  placed,  like  images, 
in  the  best  corners,  Mr.  Trenchard  saying  sometimes  in  his 
silvery  voice :  "It's  very  kind  of  you,  Harriet,"  or  "Thank 
ye,  Betty,  my  dear,"  and  once  to  Millie,  "I  like  to  see  ye 
laughing,  my  dear — very  pretty,  very  pretty".  Aunt  Sarah 
frowned  and  wrinkled  her  nose,  but  was,  in  her  high  black 
bonnet,  a  very  fine  figure.  Her  maid,  Clarence,  was  plain, 
elderly  and  masculine  in  appearance,  having  a  moustache  and 
a  stiff  linen  collar  and  very  little  hair  visible  under  her  black 
straw  hat.  She,  however,  knew  just  how  Great- Aunt  Sarah 
liked  to  be.  ... 

The  others  in  that  compartment  were  Aunt  Aggie,  George 
Trenchard  (he  sat  next  to  his  father  and  told  him  jokes  out 
of  the  papers)  and  Mrs.  Trenchard.  In  the  other  carriage 
Katherine  and  Philip  had  the  corners  by  the  window.  Aunt 
Betty  sat  next  to  Philip,  Millie  and  Henry  had  the  farther 
corners.  When  the  train  started,  Katherine's  heart  gave  a 
jump,  as  it  always  did  when  she  set  off  for  Garth.  "We're 
really  off.  We'll  really  be  in  Garth  by  the  evening.  We'll 
really  wake  up  there  to-morrow  morning." 

Philip  had  not  seen  Henry  since  his  return  from  Man- 


202  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Chester,  so  he  tried  to  talk  to  him.  Henry,  however,  was 
engaged  upon  a  very  large  edition  of  "War  and  Peace,"  and, 
although  he  answered  Philip's  enquiries  very  politely,  he  was 
obviously  determined  to  speak  to  no  one.  Millie  had  Henry 
Galleon's  "Roads"  to  read,  but  she  did  not  study  it  very 
deeply — Aunt  Betty  had  a  novel  called  "The  Rosary"  and 
her  knitting ;  now  and  then  she  would  break  into  little  scraps 
of  talk  as:  "But  if  I  moved  the  bed  across  lengthways  that 
would  leave  room  for  the  bookcase,"  or  "I  do  think  people 
must  be  clever  to  make  up  conversations  in  books,"  or 
"There's  Reading".  The  lovers,  therefore,  were  left  to  one 
another.  .  .  . 

Katherine  had  upon  her  lap  the  novel  that  had  so  greatly 
excited  Henry ;  he  had  insisted  upon  her  reading  it,  but  now 
it  lay  idly  there,  unopened.  That  little  smile  that  had  hov- 
ered about  her  lips  last  night  was  still  there  to-day.  Often 
her  eyes  were  closed,  and  she  might  have  seemed  to  be  asleep 
were  it  not  that  the  little  smile  was  alive — her  eyes  would 
open,  they  would  meet  Philip's  eyes,  they  would  be  drawn, 
the  two  of  them,  closer  and  closer  and  closer. 

They  talked  together,  their  voices  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 
The  day  was  one  of  those  that  are  given  sometimes,  in  a  fit 
of  forgetfulness,  by  the  gods,  at  the  beginning  of  March.  It 
was  a  very  soft,  misty  day,  with  the  sun  warm  and  golden  but 
veiled.  Trees  on  the  dim  blue  horizon  were  faintly  pink, 
and  streams  that  flashed  for  an  instant  before  the  windows 
were  pigeon-colour.  Everywhere  the  earth  seemed  to  be 
breaking,  flowers  pushing  through  the  soil,  rivers  released 
from  their  winter  bondage  laughing  in  their  new  freedom, 
the  earth  chuckling,  whispering,  humming  with  the  glorious 
excitement  of  its  preparation,  as  though  it  had  never  had  a 
spring  in  all  its  life  before,  as  though  it  did  not  know  that 
there  would  yet  be  savage  winds,  wild  storms  of  rain,  many 
cold  and  bitter  days.  Blue  mist — running  water — trees  with 
their  bursting  buds — a  haze  of  sun  and  rain  in  the  air — a 
great  and  happy  peace. 


GARTH  IK  ROSELANDS  203 

Katherine  and  Philip,  although  they  saw  no  one  but  one 
another,  were  aware  of  the  day — it  was  as  though  it  had  been 
arranged  especially  for  them.  The  rise  and  fall  of  their 
voices  had  a  sleepy  rhythm,  as  though  they  were  keeping  time 
with  the  hum  of  the  train : 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Katherine,  "that  your  first  view  of 
Glebeshire  will  be  on  a  day  like  this." 

"I'm  a  little  afraid,"  he  answered.  "What  will  you  say  if 
I  don't  like  it?" 

She  seemed  really  for  an  instant  to  be  afraid.  "But,  of 
course,  of  course,  you  will." 

"Everyone  doesn't.  Someone  told  me  the  other  day  that 
either  it  was  desolate  enough  to  depress  you  for  a  lifetime  or 
stuffy  like  a  hot-house,  and  that  the  towns  were  the  ugliest 
in  the  United  Kingdom." 

Katherine  sighed  and  then  smiled. 

"I  expect  they'd  think  Manchester  the  loveliest  place  on 
earth,"  she  said.  Then,  looking  at  him  very  intently,  she 
asked  him:  "Do  you  regret  Russia — the  size  and  the  space 
and  the  strangeness  ?  I  daresay  you  do.  Do  you  know,  Phil, 
I'm  rather  jealous  of  Russia,  of  all  the  things  you  did  before 
I  knew  you,  I  wonder  whether  I'd  have  liked  you  if  I'd  met 
you  then,  whether  you'd  have  liked  me.  I  expect  you  were 
very  different.  Tell  me  about  it.  I'm  always  asking  you 
about  Moscow,  and  you're  so  mysterious — yes,  I  believe  I'm 
jealous." 

Philip  looked  away  from  her,  out  of  the  window,  at  the 
fields  with  their  neat  hedges,  the  gentle  hills  faintly  purple, 
villages  tucked  into  nests  of  trees,  cows  grazing,  horses  mildly 
alert  at  the  passing  train.  For  a  moment  he  was  conscious 
of  irritation  at  the  tidy  cosiness  of  it  all.  Then  he  spoke, 
dreamily,  as  though  he  were  talking  in  his  sleep : 

"No.  That's  all  behind  me.  I  shall  never  go  back  there 
again.  I  don't  think  of  it  often,  but  sometimes  I  fancy  I'm 
there.  Sounds  will  bring  it  back,  and  I  dream  sometimes.  .  .  . 
One  gets  so  used  to  it  that  it's  hard  now  to  say  what  one  did 


204  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

feel  about  it.  I  had  a  little  flat  in  a  part  of  the  town  called 
the  Arbat.  Out  of  my  window  I  could  see  a  church  with  sky- 
blue  domes  covered  with  silver  stars,  there  was  a  shop  with 
food,  sausages  and  all  kinds  of  dried  fish,  and  great  barrels 
of  red  caviare  and  mountains  of  cheese.  The  church  had  a 
cherry-coloured  wall,  with  a  glittering  Ikon  at  the  gate  and  a 
little  lamp  burning  in  front  of  it.  There  were  always  some 
cabs  at  the  end  of  my  street,  with  the  cabmen  in  their  fat, 
bunched-up  clothes  sleeping  very  often,  their  heads  hanging 
from  the  shafts.  Lines  of  carts  from  the  country  would  pass 
down  the  street  with  great  hoops  of  coloured  wood  over  the 
horses'  necks  and  wild-looking  peasants  in  charge  of  them. 
They  didn't  seem  wild  to  me  then — they  were  quite  ordinary. 
Always  just  before  six  the  bells  at  the  church  would  ring, 
one  slow,  deep  note  and  a  little  funny  noisy  jangle  as  well — 
one  beautiful  and  unearthly ;  the  other  like  a  talkative  woman, 
all  human.  ...  In  the  autumn  there'd  be  weeks  of  rain, 
and  the  mud  would  rise  and  rise,  and  the  carts  and  cabs  go 
splashing  through  great  streams  of  water.  When  the  snow 
came  there'd  be  fine  days  and  the  town  on  fire,  all  sparkling 
and  quivering,  and  every  ugly  thing  in  the  place  would  be 
beautiful.  There'd  be  many  days  too  when  the  sky  would 
fall  lower  and  lower  and  the  town  be  like  grey  blotting-paper 
and  the  most  beautiful  things  hideous.  Opposite  my  window 
there  was  a  half-built  house  that  had  been  there  for  three 
years,  and  no  one  had  troubled  to  finish  it.  There  was  a 
beggar  at  the  corner — a  fine  old  man  with  no  legs.  He  must 
have  made  a  fortune,  because  everyone  who  passed  gave  him 
something.  It  would  be  fine  on  a  snowy  night  when  the 
night-watchmen  built  great  fires  of  logs  to  keep  them  warm. 

"On  a  starry  night  I  could  see  the  domes  of  St.  Saviour's 
Cathedral  like  little  golden  clouds — very  beautiful." 

"And  what  was  the  inside  of  your  flat  like  ?"  asked  Kath- 
erine.  She  had  been  leaning  a  little  forward,  her  hands 
clasped  together,  deeply  interested. 

"Ohl  very  small  1    I  made  it  as  English  as  I  could.     It 


GAETH  IN  ROSELANDS  205 

had  central  heating  and,  in  the  winter,  with  the  double  win- 
dows, it  got  very  stuffy.  I  had  English  pictures  and  English 
books,  but  it  was  never  very  comfortable.  I  don't  know  why. 
Nothing  in  Russia's  comfortable.  I  had  a  funny  old  servant 
called  Sonia.  She  was  fond  of  me,  but  she  drank ;  she  was 
always  having  relations  to  stay  with  her.  I  would  find  funny- 
looking  men  in  the  kitchen  in  the  morning.  She  had  no  idea 
of  time,  and  would  cook  well  or  badly  as  she  pleased.  She 
liked  to  tell  fairy  stories;  she  stole  and  she  drank  and  she 
lied,  but  I  kept  her  because  I  couldn't  bother  to  change  her." 

He  stopped — then  began  again,  but  now  more  dreamily 
than  before,  as  though  he'd  been  carried  far  away  from  the 
train,  from  England,  from  Katherine.  "Yes — that  was  it — 
one  couldn't  be  bothered.  One  couldn't  be  bothered  about 
anything,  and  one  didn't  need  to  bother,  because  no  one  else 
bothered  either.  Perhaps  that's  just  why  I  loved  it,  as  I  see 
now  that  I  did  love  it.  No  one  cared  for  anything  but  what 
was  in  the  air — dreams,  superstitions,  stories.  The  country 
itself  was  like  that  too — so  vague,  so  vast  and  boundless,  so 
careless  and  heedless,  so  unpractical,  so  good  for  dreams,  so 
bad  for  work,  so  unfinished,  letting  so  many  things  go  to 
pieces,  so  beautiful  and  so  ugly,  so  depressing  and  so  cheer- 
ful, so  full  of  music  and  of  ugly  sounds  ...  so  bad  to  live 
in,  so  good  to  dfeam  in.  I  was  happy  there  and  I  didn't 
know  it — I  was  happy  and  didn't  know  it"  His  voice  had 
sunk  to  a  whisper,  so  that  Katherine  could  not  catch  his 
words.  She  touched  the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"Come  back,  Phil,  come  back,"  she  said,  laughing. 
"You're  lost." 

He  started,  then  smiled  at  her. 

"It's  all  right  .  .  .  but  it's  odd.  There  are  so  many  things 
that  didn't  seem  to  me  to  be  curious  and  beautiful  then  that 
are  so  now."  Then,  looking  at  Katherine  very  intently,  as 
though  he  were  calling  her  back  to  him,  he  said : 

"But  don't  talk  to  me  about  Russia.  It's  bad  for  me.  I 
don't  want  to  think  of  it.  I've  left  it  for  ever.  And  when 


206  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

you  ask  me  questions  it  revives  me,  as  though  it  still  had  some 
power.  .  .  .  You  say  that  you're  afraid  of  it — why,"  he 
ended,  laughing,  "I  believe  I'm  afraid  of  it  too — I  don't 
want  to  think  of  it.  It's  England  now  and  Glebeshire  and 
you — and  you,"  he  whispered.  They  were  interrupted  then 
by  an  attendant,  who  told  them  that  it  was  time  for  the  first 
luncheon. 

Afterwards,  when  the  shadows  were  lengthening  across  the 
fields  and  the  misty  sun  rode  low  above  the  far  hills,  they  sat 
silently  dreaming  of  their  great  happiness.  It  was  an  after- 
noon that  was  to  remain,  for  both  of  them,  throughout  their 
lives,  in  spite  of  all  after  events,  a  most  perfect  memory. 
There  are  moments  in  the  histories  of  all  of  us  when  we  are 
carried  into  heights  that  by  the  splendour  of  their  view,  the 
fine  vigour  of  their  air,  the  rapture  of  their  achievement  offer 
to  us  a  sufficient  reassurance  against  the  ironic  powers.  We 
find  in  them  a  justification  of  our  hopes,  our  confidences,  our 
inspirations,  our  faith.  .  .  . 

So,  for  these  few  hours  at  least,  Katherine  and  Philip 
found  their  justification. 

This  was  a  moment  that  two  others,  also,  in  that  carriage 
were  never  afterwards  to  forget.  Millie,  under  the  warm 
afternoon  sun,  had  fallen  asleep.  She  woke  to  a  sudden,  half- 
real,  half-fantastic  realisation  of  Philip.  She  was  awake, 
of  course,  and  yet  Philip  was  not  quite  human  to  her — or  was 
it  that  he  was  more  human  than  he  had  ever  been  before? 
She  watched  him,  with  her  young,  eager,  inquisitive  gaze, 
over  the  cover  of  her  book.  She  watched  him  steadily  for  a 
long  time. 

She  had  always  liked  the  clean,  bullet-shaped  head,  his 
black  eyes,  his  sturdiness  and  set,  square  shoulders,  his  colour 
and  his  strength.  She  had  always  liked  him,  but  to-day,  in 
this  sudden  glimpse,  he  seemed  to  be  revealed  to  her  as  some- 
one whom  she  was  seeing  for  the  first  time.  Millie,  in  all  the 
freshness  of  her  anticipated  attack  upon  the  world,  had  at  this 


GAETH  IN  ROSELANDS  207 

period  very  little  patience  for  bunglers,  for  sentimentalists, 
for  nervous  and  hesitating  souls.  Now,  strangely,  she  saw  in 
Philip's  eyes  some  hinted  weakness,  and  yet  she  did  not  de- 
spise him.  "I  believe,"  she  thought,  "he's  afraid  of  us." 
That  discovery  came  as  though  it  had  been  whispered  to  her 
by  someone  who  knew.  Her  old  conviction  that  she  knew 
him  better  than  did  the  others  showed  now  no  signs  of  falter- 
ing. "I  believe  I  could  help  him  as  they  none  of  them  can," 
she  thought.  "No,  not  even  Katherine."  She  had,  in  spite 
of  her  determined,  practical  common-sense,  the  most  romantic 
idea  of  love,  and  now,  as  she  thought  of  the  two  of  them 
wrapped  up  there  before  her  eyes  in  one  another,  she  felt  irri- 
tated by  her  own  isolation.  "I  wonder  whether  Katheriue 
understands  him  really,"  she  thought.  "Katherine's  so  sim- 
ple, and  takes  everything  for  granted.  It's  enough  for  her 
that  she's  in  love.  I  don't  believe  it's  enough  for  him."  She 
had  always  in  very  early  days  felt  some  protecting,  motherly 
element  in  her  love  for  Katherine.  That  protection  seemed 
now  to  spread  to  Philip  as  well.  "Oh!  I  do  hope  they're 
going  to  be  happy,"  she  thought,  and  so,  taking  them  both 
with  her  under  her  wing,  dozed  off  to  sleep  again.  .  .  . 

The  other  was,  of  course,  Henry. 

No  one  could  ever  call  Henry  a  gay  youth.  I  don't  think 
that  anyone  ever  did,  and  although  with  every  year  that  he 
grows  he  is  stronger,  more  cheerful  and  less  clumsy  and  mis- 
anthropic, he  will  never  be  really  gay.  He  will  always  be  far 
too  conscious  of  the  troubles  that  may  tumble  on  to  his  head, 
of  the  tragedies  of  his  friends  and  the  evils  of  his  country. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  temperament,  he  had,  deep  down  in 
his  soul,  a  sense  of  humour,  an  appreciation  of  his  own  comic 
appearance,  a  ready  applause  for  the  optimists  (although 
to  this  he  would  never,  never  confess) .  "He's  a  surly  brute," 
I  heard  someone  say  of  him  once — but  it  is  possible  (I  do  not 
say  probable)  that  he  will  be  a  great  man  one  of  these  days, 
and  then  everyone  will  admire  his  fine  reserve,  "the  taci- 
turnity of  a  great  man" ;  in  one  of  his  sudden  moments  of 


208  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

confidence  he  confessed  to  me  that  this  particular  journey 
down  to  Glebeshire  was  the  beginning  of  the  worst  time  in 
his  life — not,  of  course,  quite  the  beginning.  Philip's  appear- 
ance on  that  foggy  night  of  his  grandfather's  birthday  was 
that — and  he  is  even  now  not  so  old  but  that  there  may  be 
plenty  of  bad  times  in  store  for  him.  "But  he  will  know  now 
how  to  meet  them ;  this  was  his  first  test  of  responsibility. 

He  had  always  told  himself  that  what  he  really  wanted  was 
to  show,  in  some  heroic  fashion,  his  love  for  Katherine.  Let 
him  be  tested,  he  cried,  by  fire,  stake,  torture  and  the  block, 
and  he  would  "show  them."  Well,  the  test  had  coma  As  he 
sat  opposite  her  in  the  railway  carriage  he  faced  it  He 
might  go  up  to  Philip  and  say  to  him :  "Look  here,  is  it  true  ? 
Did  you  have  a  mistress  in  Moscow  for  three  years  and  have 
a  son  by  her?"  But  what  then?  If  Philip  laughed,  and 
said:  "Why,  of  course  .  .  .  everyone  knows  it.  That's  all 
over  now.  What  is  it  to  you  ?"  He  would  answer :  "It's  this 
to  me.  I'm  not  going  to  have  a  rotten  swelp  of  a  fellow  marry- 
ing my  sister  and  making  her  miserable." 

Then  Philip  might  say:  "My  dear  child — how  young 
you  are !  all  men  do  these  things.  I've  finished  with  that  part 
of  my  life.  But,  anyway,  don't  interfere  between  me  and 
Katherine,  you'll  only  make  her  miserable  and  you'll  do  no 
good." 

Ah !  that  was  just  it.  He  would  make  her  miserable ;  he 
could  not  look  at  her  happiness  and  contemplate  his  own  de- 
struction of  it.  And  yet  if  Philip  were  to  marry  her  and 
afterwards  neglect  her,  and  leave  her  as  he  had  left  this  other 
woman,  would  not  Henry  then  reproach  himself  most  bit- 
terly for  ever  and  ever  ?  But  perhaps,  after  all,  the  story  of 
that  wretched  man  at  the  Club  was  untrue,  it  had  been,  per- 
haps, grossly  exaggerated.  Henry  had  a  crude  but  finely-col- 
oured fancy  concerning  the  morals  of  the  Man  of  the  World. 
Had  not  Seymour  dismissed  such  things  with  a  jolly  laugh 
and  "my  dear  fellow,  it's  no  business  of  ours.  We're  all  very 
much  alike  if  we  only  knew."  Had  he  not  a  secret  envy  of 


GARTH  IN  ROSELASTDS  209 

this  same  Man  of  the  World  who  carried  off  his  sins  so  lightly 
with  so  graceful  an  air?  But  now  it  was  no  case  of  an 
abstract  sinner — it  was  a  case  of  the  happiness  or  unhappiness 
of  the  person  whom  Henry  loved  best  in  life. 

A  subtler  temptation  attacked  him.  He  knew  (he  could  not 
possibly  doubt)  that  if  his  parents  were  told,  Philip  would 
have  to  go.  One  word  from  him  to  his  mother,  and  the  fam- 
ily were  rid  of  this  fellow  who  had  come  out  of  nowhere  to 
disturb  their  peace.  The  thing  was  so  infernally  easy.  As 
he  sat  there,  reading,  apparently,  his  novel,  his  eyes  were  on 
Katherine's  face.  She  was  leaning  back,  her  eyes  closed, 
smiling  at  her  thoughts.  What  would  Katherine  do  ?  Would 
she  leave  them  all  and  go  with  him  ?  Would  she  hate  him, 
Henry,  for  ever  afterwards?  Yes,  that  she  would  probably 
do.  ...  Ah,  he  was  a  weak,  feeble,  indeterminate  creature. 
He  could  make  up  his  mind  about  nothing.  .  .  .  That  eve- 
ning he  had  had  with  Philip,  it  had  been  glorious  and  dis- 
gusting, thrilling  and  sordid.  He  was  rather  glad  that  he 
had  been  drunk — he  was  also  ashamed.  He  was  intensely 
relieved  that  none  of  the  family  had  seen  him,  and  yet  he  saw 
himself  shouting  to  them :  "I  was  drunk  the  other  night,  and 
I  talked  to  rotten  women  and  I  didn't  care  what  happened 
to  ma  .  .  .  I'm  a  boy  no  longer." 

He  hated  Philip,  and  yet,  perhaps,  Philip  was  leading 
him  to  freedom.  That  fellow  in  the  novel  about  the  sea  and 
the  forests  (Henry  could  see  him  challenging  his  foes,  walk- 
ing quietly  across  the  square  towards  his  friend,  who  was 
waiting  to  slay  him).  He  would  have  admired  Philip. 
Henry  saw  himself  as  that  fine  solitary  figure  waiting  for  his 
opportunity.  How  grand  he  could  be  had  he  a  chance,  but  life 
was  so  lofty,  so  unromantic,  so  conventional.  Instead  of 
meeting  death  like  a  hero,  he  must  protect  Katherine  .  .  . 
and  he  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  ... 

As  the  sun  was  sinking  in  a  thick  golden  web  that  glittered 
behind  the  dark  purple  woods — woods  that  seemed  now  to 
stand  like  watchers  with  their  fingers  upon  their  lips — the 


210  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

train  crossed  the  boundary  river.  That  crossing  had  been, 
ever  since  he  could  remember,  a  very  great  moment  to  Henry. 
To-day  the  recognition  of  it  dragged  him  away  from  Philip 
and  Katherine,  from  everything  but  Glebeshire. 

He  looked  across  at  Katherine  instinctively — she,  sitting 
now  upright,  gazing  out  of  the  window,  turned  as  though  she 
had  known  and  smiled  at  him.  They  were  in  Glebeshire, 
there  was  the  first  valley,  mysterious,  now  like  a  dark  purple 
cup,  there  the  white  winding  road  that  went  over  the  hill 
on  to  Rasselas,  Liskane,  Clinton  and  Truxe,  there  was  the 
first  break  in  the  hills,  where  you  always  peered  forward  ex- 
pecting to  catch  a  shimmer  of  the  sea,  here  that  cluster  of 
white  cottages  that,  when  he  had  been  small,  had  seemed  to 
be  tumbling  down  the  hill,  very  dangerous  to  live  in  ...  at 
last  the  pause  at  Carlyon,  the  last  stop  before  Rasselas. 

It  was  quite  dark  now.  The  light  had  suddenly  been  drawn 
from  the  sky,  and  the  earth  was  filled  with  new  sounds,  new 
scents,  new  mysteries.  The  train  stopped  for  a  minute  be- 
fore Rasselas,  and,  suddenly  all  about  it,  through  the  open 
window  there  crowded  whispers,  stealthy  movements,  the 
secret  confidences  of  some  hidden  stream,  the  murmured 
greetings  of  the  trees.  The  train  lay  there  as  though  it  had 
wanted  them  all  to  know  how  lovely  the  evening  was.  On  the 
road  that  skirted  the  train  a  man  with  a  lantern  greeted  a  cart. 
<rWell,  good-night  to  'ee,"  a  voice  said  clear  and  sharp  like  an 
invitation;  Henry's  heart  began  to  beat  furiously.  Glebe- 
shire had  welcomed  them. 

With  a  jerk  the  train  stumbled  forward  again,  and  they 
were  in  Rasselas.  The  little  station,  which  was  of  some  im- 
portance because  it  was  a  junction  for  Pelynt  and  therefore 
also  for  Rafiel,  lay  very  quietly  at  the  bottom  of  the  wooded 
hill.  A  porter  went  down  the  train  swinging  a  lantern  and 
crying:  "Change  for  P'lynt.  Change  for  P'lynt." 

A  stream  flowed  near  by,  and  the  scent  of  a  garden  flooded 
the  station :  there  would  be  already  snowdrops  and  primroses 
and  crocuses.  The  whole  party  of  them  were  bundled  out  on 


GARTH  IN  ROSELANDS  211 

to  the  platform — a  great  pile  of  luggage  loomed  in  the  dis- 
tance. Heads  from  the  carriage  windows  watched  them,  then 
a  pause,  a  cry,  and  the  train  was  off,  leaving  them  all  high 
and  dry,  with  the  wind  blowing  round  their  hair  and  clothes 
and  ankles  like  a  friendly  and  inquisitive  dog.  There  was 
sea  in  the  wind. 

"Smell  the  sea !"  cried  Millie.  "I  must  have  left  it  in  the 
restaurant  car,"  said  Aunt  Aggie.  "Too  provoking.  I  par- 
ticularly wanted  you  to  read  that  article,  Harriet.  I  think 
you  might  have  noticed,  Millie  .  .  .  you  were  sitting  next 
to  me." 

"There's  Jacob !"  Henry,  suddenly  happy  and  excited  and 
free  from  all  burdens,  cried : 

"Hallo !  Jacob !  How  are  you  ?  How's  everyone  ?  How's 
Rebekah?" 

Jacob,  with  a  face  like  a  red  moon,  smiled,  touched  his  hat, 
stormed  at  a  young  man  in  buttons.  "Do  'ee  bustle  a  bit, 
John.  Didn't  I  tell  'ee  the  box  with  the  black  'andles  ?  .  .  . 
very  comfortable,  Mr.  'Enry,  sir,  thank  'ee,  as  I  'opes  you 
finds  yourself.  Been  a  bit  o'  sickness  around  down  along  in 
the  village  .  .  .  but  not  to  'urt.  .  .  ." 

Could  they  all  get  in  ?  Of  course  they  could.  The  luggage 
was  all  on  the  luggage-cart,  and  Rock  and  Clarence  with  it ;  a 
silver  moon,  just  rising  now  above  the  station  roofs,  peeping 
at  her,  laughed  at  her  serious  dignity. 

"No,  we'll  go  on  the  box,  Philip  and  I,"  said  Katherine. 
"Of  course  I  shan't  be  cold.  No,  really,  we'd  rather,  wouldn't 
we,  Philip  ?  Plenty  of  room,  Jacob." 

They  were  off,  up  the  little  hill,  down  over  the  little  bridge 
and  through  the  little  village.  Katherine,  sitting  between 
Philip  and  Jacob,  pressing  her  cheek  against  Philip's  rough 
tweed  coat,  her  hand  lying  in  his  under  the  rug,  seemed  to 
slip,  dreaming,  fulfilling  some  earlier  vision,  through  space. 
She  had  wondered  sometimes,  in  the  earlier  days,  whether 
there  could  be  any  greater  happiness  in  life  than  that  ever- 


212  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

thrilling,  ever-satisfying  return  to  Garth.  She  knew  now  that 
there  was  a  greater  happiness.  .  .  . 

A  white  world  of  crackling,  burning  stars  roofed  them  in ; 
an  owl  flew  by  them  through  the  grey  dusk ;  the  air  smelt  of 
spring  flowers  and  fresh  damp  soil.  The  stream  that  had  been 
with  them  since  their  entrance  into  Glebeshire  still  accom- 
panied them,  running  with  its  friendly  welcome  at  their  side. 
Beyond  the  deep  black  hedges  cows  and  horses  and  sheep 
moved  stealthily:  it  seemed  that  they  might  not  disturb  the 
wonderful  silence  of  the  night. 

"Are  you  warm  enough?"  he  asked  her;  he  caught  her 
hand  more  tightly  and  kissed  her  cheek,  very  softly  and 
gently.  She  trembled  with  happiness,  and  pressed  more 
closely  against  his  coat. 

"Can  you  smell  the  sea  yet  ?  You  will  when  you  get  to  the 
top  of  Rasselas  Hill.  This  is  the  high  road  to  Pelynt.  It 
runs  parallel  with  the  railway  until  we  get  to  the  cross  roads, 
Pelynt  Cross,  you  know.  .  .  .  You'll  smell  the  sea  there. 
You  can  see  it  on  a  clear  day.  To  the  left  of  you  there  is  just 
Pelynt  Moor.  It  runs  for  miles  and  miles,  right  along  by  the 
Drymouth  Road.  .  .  .  Look  through  the  break  in  the  hedge. 
Do  you  see  that  light  across  the  field  ?  That's  John  Pollen's 
cottage.  John  was  murdered  just  about  a  hundred  years  ago. 
He  was  an  old  miser,  and  some  men  robbed  him,  but  they 
never  found  his  head.  They  say  he  wanders  about  still  look- 
ing for  it.  ...  Oh,  if  this  could  go  on  for  ever.  Philip,  are 
you  happy  ?" 

"Happy  ?"  .  .  .  Ah !  she  could  feel  his  body  quiver. 

"Yes,  and  now  we're  coming  down  to  the  Well.  There's  a 
little  wood  just  at  the  body  of  the  hill.  We  always  call  it  the 
Well  because  it's  so  dark  and  green.  It's  the  most  famous 
wood  for  primroses  in  all  Glebeshire.  They'll  be  coming 
now.  .  .  .  We'll  walk  here.  ...  I  cried  once  because  I 
thought  I  was  lost  here.  They  forgot  me  and  went  homa 
Then  I  was  comforted  by  the  postman,  who  found  me  and 
carried  me  home.  .  .  .  Jacob,  do  you  remember  ?" 


GAKTH  IN  ROSELANDS  213 

"Ah,  Miss  Kathie,  doan't  'ee  think  that  I'd  forget  ought 
about  'ee.  Not  likely.  And  your  mother  in  a  fine  takin',  poor 
soul,  too.  We're  a-coming  to  P'lynt  Cross  now,  sir — as  fa- 
mous as  any  spot  o'  ground  in  the  'ole  of  Glebeshire,  sir — 
Hup,  then!  Hup,  then— Whey— Oh !  oh!  Hup,  then!" 

They  pulled  to  the  top,  leaving  the  wood  in  the  dip  behind 
them.  The  wind  met  them,  flinging  its  salt  and  freshness  in 
their  faces  with  a  rough,  wild  greeting.  Philip  could  hear 
suddenly  the  humming  of  the  telegraph  wires,  as  though  they 
had  sprung  from  their  imprisonment  in  the  valley  and  were 
chanting  their  victory.  To  his  left,  vague  and  formless  under 
the  starlight,  stretched  Pelynt  Moor,  waiting  there,  scorn- 
fully'confident  in  its  age  and  strength  and  power,  for  day- 
light. The  salt  wind  flung  its  arms  around  them  and  dragged 
them  forward ;  Philip,  listening,  could  hear,  very  stealthily, 
with  the  rhythm  of  armed  men  marching,  the  beating  of  the 
sea.  .  .  . 

"Now  we're  near — now  we're  very  near.  It'll  be  Garth 
Cross  in  a  minute.  There  it  is.  Now  we  turn  off  down  to  the 
Almshouses.  We  don't  really  come  into  the  village.  .  .  . 
There  are  the  Almshouses  and  the  Common.  .  .  .  Now  round 
the  corner.  .  .  .  There  it  is — there's  the  Gate — the  Gate! 
.  .  .  Oh !  Philip,  are  you  happy  ?" 

She  was  crying  a  %very  little :  her  eyes  were  blurred  as  they 
turned  up  the  long  drive,  past  all  the  rhododendron  bushes, 
past  the  lawn  with  the  giant  oak  at  the  farther  end  of  it,  round 
the  curve  to  the  hall  door,  with  Rebekah  standing  under  the 
porch  to  welcome  them.  Philip  was  down,  and  had  helped 
her  to  the  ground.  She  stood  a  little  away  from  them  all  as 
they  laughed  and  chattered  about  the  door.  She  wiped  her 
eyes  with  her  gloved  hand  to  stop  the  tears. 

Philip  was  conscious  of  standing  in  a  long  dark  hall  with 
stairs  at  the  end  of  it  and  a  large  oak  chest  with  a  glass  case 
that  contained  a  stuffed  bird  taking  up  much  of  the  space; 
that,  he  always  afterwards  remembered,  was  his  first  impres- 
sion of  the  house,  that  it  was  absurd  to  put  so  large  a  chest 


214  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

just  there  where  everyone  would  knock  against  it.  A  misty 
babel  of  talk  surrounded  him :  he  was  conscious  of  a  tall  old 
woman  wearing  a  high,  stiffly-starched  white  cap:  she  had  a 
fine  colour,  very  dark  red  cheeks,  hair  a  deep  black  and  flash- 
ing eyes.  She  must  be  between  sixty  and  seventy,  but  her 
body  was  straight  and  vigorous.  This  was,  he  supposed,  Re- 
bekah.  He  saw,  in  the  background,  old  Mr.  Trenchard  being 
helped  up  the  stairs  by  Rocket;  he  heard  Aunt  Betty  in  a 
happy  twitter,  "Ah,  now,  this  is  nice  .  .  .  this  is  nice  .  .  . 
how  nice  this  is."  He  heard  Mrs.  Trenchard's  slow,  sleepy 
voice:  "No — the  train  was  punctual,  Rebekah,  quite  punc- 
tual. We  had  luncheon  on  the  train  .  .  .  yes,  we  were  quite 
punctual." 

Someone  said:  "I'll  show  Philip  his  room,"  and  George 
Trenchard,  laughing,  cried  to  him:  "Come  on,  Philip,  thia 
way — this  way."  Trenchard,  like  a  boy,  bounded  up  the 
stairs  in  front  of  him.  They  were  old,  black,  winding  and 
creaking  stairs  that  sighed  as  you  mounted  them.  Trenchard 
cried :  "To  the  right  now — mind  your  head !"  They  turned 
through  a  little  passage,  so  low  that  Philip  must  bend  double 
and  so  dark  that  he  could  see  nothing  before  him.  He  put 
out  his  hand,  touched  Trenchard's  broad  back,  and  was  sur- 
prised at  his  sense  of  relief.  Now  they  walked  along  another 
passage,  very  narrow,  white  walls  with  coloured  sporting 
prints  hanging  on  them.  "Ah !  here's  the  Blue  Room.  Here 
you  are.  Hope  you'll  like  it — got  a  decent  view.  Brought 
you  hot  water?  Ah,  yes,  there  it  is.  When  you've  washed 
come  down  just  as  you  are.  Don't  bother  to  change.  .  .  . 
It's  only  supper  to-night,  you  know.  .  .  .  Right  you  are." 

His  room  was  charming,  with  cherry-coloured  wall-paper 
on  walls  that  seemed  a  thousand  years  old.  He  flung  his  win- 
dows open,  and  there  was  the  moon,  thin,  sharp,  quivering 
with  light  in  the  sky,  and  he  could  hear  the  stream  that  had 
accompanied  him  ever  since-  his  entry  into  Glebeshire  still 
singing  to  him.  The  night  air  was  so  sweet,  the  trees,  that 
sighed  and  trembled  and  sighed  again,  so  intimate.  There 


GAKTH  IN  KOSELANDS  215 

was  an  intimacy  here  that  he  had  never  felt  in  any  country 
before. 

There  was  an  intimacy  and  also,  for  him,  at  any  rate,  some 
strange  loneliness.  .  .  .  He  closed  the  window.  He  found 
his  way  down  into  the  hall,  and  there  saw  Katherine. 
"Quick !"  she  cried.  "Quick  I  I  hoped  that  you'd  come  down 
before  the  others.  We've  got  ten  minutes."  She  was  almost 
dancing  with  excitement  (she  his  staid,  reserved  Katherine). 
She  was  pulling  him  by  the  arm,  out  through  the  door,  under 
the  porch,  into  the  garden.  She  ran  across  the  lawn,  and  he, 
more  slowly,  followed  her.  He  caught  her  and  held  her  close 
to  him. 

"You  love  it,  Philip — don't  you?  You  must.  Of  course 
you've  hardly  seen  anything  to-night.  To-morrow  we  must 
both  get  up  early,  before  anyone  else,  and  come  down.  But 
look  back  now.  Isn't  the  house  simply —  ?  Isn't  it  ?  Don't 
you  feel  the  happiness  and  cosiness  and  friendliness?  Oh, 
you  must !  You  must !" 

"When  I've  got  you  I  don't  want  anything.  Everything  is 
lovely." 

"But  you're  happy  now  to  be  here,  aren't  you?" 

"Very  happy." 

"And  you  won't  be  disappointed,  will  you?  You  must 
promise  me  that  you  won't  be  disappointed." 

"I  promise  you." 

"And  there's  so  much  to  show  you !  Oh !  it's  so  wonderful 
to  have  all  the  old  places  that  I've  loved  so  long,  to  have  them 
all  to  show  you — to  share  them  all  with  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  won- 
derful, wonderful!" 

"Yes,  I'll  share  them  all  with  you.  But — but  .  .  .  Kath- 
erine, darling.  No,  turn  round — come  closer.  There,  like 
that :  I  don't  want  to  share  you  with  them.  I  don't  want  to 
share  you  with  anyone  or  anything." 

"You  don't — you  can't.  Of  course  you  can't.  I'm  all 
yours — but  then  this  is  part  of  me,  so  it's  all  yours  too." 

"And  you  couldn't  live  away  from  it  ?    You  couldn't  imag- 


216  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ine  having  to  be  right  away  from  it — if  I  had  to  live  some- 
where else  ?" 

'^jBut  why  should  you  ?  You  won't  have  to  live  somewhere 
else.  And  let's  not  imagine  anything.  Things  are  so  lovely, 
so  perfect,  as  they  are.  I  don't  like  imagining  things.  I  can't 
when  this  is  all  so  real." 

"Katie  .  .  .  Katie  .  .  .  No,  come  closer.  Much  closer. 
I  don't  care  if  I  do  hurt  you.  I  want  to.  I  want  you,  you, 
you.  It's  what  I  said  last  night.  Let's  marry  soon — not  this 
awful  year.  I  feel — I  don't  know — I  imagine  too  much.  I 
suppose — But  I  feel  as  though  you'd  escape  me,  as  though 
they'd  all  come  between  and  take  you  away.  If  once  you 
were  mine  I'd  never  care  again.  We'd  stay  anywhere,  do 
anything  you  like.  But  this  is  so  hard — to  wait  like  this. 
To  see  you  caring  so  much  for  other  people,  who  don't,  per- 
haps, care  for  me.  I  want  you.  I  want  you — all  of  you. 
And  I've  only  got  half." 

"Half!"  She  laughed  triumphantly.  "You  have  all  of 
me — all  of  me — for  ever!  Philip,  how  funny  you  are  I  Why, 
you  don't  trust  me !  I'd  wait  for  ever  if  necessary,  and  never 
doubt  for  an  instant  that  anything  could  come  between.  I 
trust  you  as  I  trust  this  place." 

A  voice  broke  in  upon  them.    Someone  called. 

"Katherine !    Katherine !" 

Slowly  she  drew  away  from  him.  "That's  mother.  I 
must  go." 

He  caught  her  hand.  "Stay  a  little  longer.  They  can 
wait." 

"No,  it's  mother.  She  wants  me.  Come  on,  Phil  darling. 
Supper  time.  We'll  creep  out  again  afterwards." 

She  crossed  the  lawn,  expecting  Philip  to  follow  her.  But 
he  stayed  there  under  the  oak  tree.  He  heard  the  voices 
laughing  and  calling  in  the  lighted  house.  He  was  suddenly 
desperately  lonely.  He  was  frightened.  .  .  .  He  crossed  hur- 
riedly the  lawn,  and  as  he  walked  he  knew  that  what  he 


GAETH  IN  KOSELANDS  217 

wanted  was  that  someone,  someone  who  really  knew  him, 
should  come  and  comfort  him. 

Before  he  entered  the  hall  he  stopped  and  looked  back  into 
the  dark  garden.  Was  there  someone  beneath  the  oak,  some- 
one who  watched  him  with  an  ironical,  indulgent  smile  ?  .  .  . 
No,  there  was  no  one  there.  But  he  knew  who  it  was  that 
could  comfort  him.  With  a  swift,  sharp  accusation  of  dis- 
loyalty he  confessed  to  himself  that  it  was  Anna  for  whom, 
during  that  instant,  he  had  looked. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    FEAST 

SOME  entries  in  Millie's  diary: 
March  12th.  Wind  and  rain  like  anything.  Been 
in  most  of  the  day  patching  up  the  screen  in  my  bedroom 
with  new  pictures — got  them  as  much  like  the  old  ones  as 
possible.  Went  for  an  hour's  tussle  with  the  wind  out  to  the 
Cross,  and  it  was  fine.  Wish  I  could  have  got  over  to  Rafiel. 
The  sea  must  have  been  fine  to-day  coming  in  over  the  Peak. 
Father  drove  Philip  over  to  Polchester  in  the  morning.  Felt 
bored  and  out  of  temper  in  the  evening. 

March  13th.  Katie  and  Philip  had  their  first  tiff  this 
morning — at  least  first  I've  seen.  He  wanted  her  to  go  off 
with  him  for  the  day.  She'd  got  to  stop  and  help  mother  with 
the  Merrimans  from  Polneaton,  coming  to  tea.  Mother  said 
it  didn't  matter,  but  I  could  see  that  she  was  awfully  pleased 
when  K.  stayed.  But  if  I'd  been  K.  I'd  have  gone.  What 
does  a  family  matter  when  one's  in  love  ?  and  she  is  in  love, 
more  than  anyone  I've  ever  seen.  But  I  think  she's  disap- 
pointed with  Phil  for  not  caring  more  about  Garth,  although 
she  never  owns  it.  I'm  sorry  for  him.  He  wanders  about 
not  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself,  and  everyone's  too 
busy  to  think  of  him.  I  try,  but  he  doesn't  want  me,  he  wants 
Katherine,  and  thinks  he  ought  to  have  her  all  the  time. 
Aunt  Aggie  makes  things  worse  in  every  way  she  can.  .  .  . 

March  15th.  Cross  all  day.  Garth  isn't  quite  so  nice  this 
time  somehow.  Is  it  because  of  Paris?  I  don't  think  so — 
it  used  to  make  one  care  all  the  more.  I  think  Philip  upsets 
one.  When  you  see  someone  criticising  something  you've  al- 

218 


THE  FEAST  219 

ways  loved,  it  makes  you  hot  defending  it,  but  also,  although 
you'd  never  own  it,  it  makes  you  see  weak  spots.  Then  he 
stirs  my  imagination  as  no  one  ever  has  done  before.  I  be- 
lieve he  always  sees  the  place  he's  not  in  much  more  vividly 
than  the  place  he  is.  If  I  were  Katie  I'd  marry  him  to-mor- 
row and  make  sure  of  him.  Not  that  he  isn't  in  love  with  her 
— he  is — more  every  day — but  he  doesn't  want  to  divide  her 
with  us,  and  she  doesn't  understand  it  and  we  won't  have  it — 
so  there  you  are ! 

March  16th.  Henry  very  queer  to-day.  I  wish  they'd 
send  him  to  Oxford  or  do  something  with  him.  It's  so  hard  on 
him  to  let  him  hang  around  doing  nothing — it's  so  bad  for 
him,  too.  I  think  he  hates  Philip,  but  is  fascinated  by  him. 
He  took  me  into  the  garden  after  lunch  to-day  as  though  he 
were  going  to  tell  me  something  very  important.  He  was  so 
very  mysterious,  and  said  I  could  advise  him,  and  he  was 
dreadfully  worried.  Then  he  suddenly  stopped,  said  it  was 
nothing,  and  wasn't  it  a  fine  day  ?  I  know  I  shall  kill  Henry 
one  day.  He  thinks  he's  so  important  and  has  got  a  great 
destiny,  whereas  he  can't  even  keep  his  face  clean.  So  I 
told  him,  and  then  I  wanted  to  hug  him  and  comfort  him. 
I'm  really  awfully  fond  of  him,  but  I  do  wish  he  was  nice 
and  smart  like  other  men. 

March  17th.  Had  a  long  walk  with  Philip  this  afternoon. 
Really  I  do  like  him  most  tremendously,  partly,  I  think,  be- 
cause he  always  treats  me  as  though  I'd  come  out  years  ago 
and  knew  all  about  everything.  He  talked  all  the  time  about 
Katherine,  which  was  natural  enough,  I  suppose.  He  said 
(what  he'd  told  me  in  London)  that  he  was  frightened  by  her 
idea  of  him,  and  wished  she  thought  him  more  as  he  was. 
He  said  he  hated  a  long  engagement,  that  he  wished  it  were 
over — then  he  said  that  he  was  a  poor  sort  of  fellow  for  any- 
one so  fine  as  Katherine,  and  I  said  that  I  didn't  think  it  did 
to  be  too  humble  about  oneself  and  that  I  always  made  myself 
out  as  grand  as  I  could  in  my  mind. 

He  said  that  it  was  Russia  made  one  like  that,  that  after 


220  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

you'd  been  in  Russia  a  little  you  doubted  everyone  and  every- 
thing, most  of  all  yourself.  I  said  that  I  thought  that  rather 
flabby  .  .  .  but  I  do  like  him.  I  don't  think  Katie  ought 
to  insist  so  much  on  his  liking  Garth.  She'll  frighten  him  off 
it  altogether  if  she  does  that. 

March  19^.  Rachel  Seddon  arrived.  Mother  asked  her 
down.  She  doesn't  generally  come  at  this  time,  and  she's 
only  just  back  from  abroad,  but  I  think  she  wants  to  see  how 
the  engagement's  getting  on.  Of  course  she  doesn't  like 
Philip — you  can  see  that  in  a  moment — and  of  course  he 
knows  it.  But  he  wants  to  make  her  like  him.  I  wish  he 
didn't  care  so  much  whether  people  like  him  or  no.  Henry 
quite  his  old  self  to-night,  and  we  danced  (I  tried  to  teach 
him  a  cake-walk)  in  my  room,  and  smashed  a  lamp  of  Aunt 
Aggie's — I'd  quite  forgotten  her  ceiling  was  my  floor.  The 
house  is  awfully  old  and  shaky — letter  from  Rose  La  Touche 
— Paris  does  seem  funny  to  think  of  here.  .  .  . 

Part  of  a  letter  that  was  never  posted — 

"I  haven't  written  to  you  all  these  weeks  because  I  was 
determined  not  to  write  to  Russia  until  I  was  settled  and 
happy  and  married  for  life.  Then,  also,  you  yourself  have 
not  written.  Have  you  all,  over  there,  forgotten  me  ?  Rus- 
sians never  do  write  letters,  do  they?  I  don't  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  disappointed — you  warned  me.  If  I'd  forgotten 
all  of  you  there — but  I  haven't.  I  thought  for  a  time  that  I 
had,  but  I  haven't  .  .  .  then  a  bell  rings,  and  all  the  servants 
troop  in  and  kneel  down  in  a  row  with  their  heels  up,  and 
George  Trenchard  reads  a  bit  out  of  the  New  Testament  and, 
very  fast,  a  prayer  about  'Thy  bumble  servants',  and  he  has 
his  eye  on  the  weather  out  of  the  window  all  the  time.  After- 
wards there  is  the  Post — also  eggs,  bacon,  marmalade,  brown 
br,ead  and  white  and  the  family  arriving  one  by  one  with 
'sorry  I'm  late!'  Fancy  a  Russian  saying:  'Sorry  I'm  late'  1 
...  so  the  day's  begun.  Afterwards,  everyone  has  their  own 
especial  job.  I  don't  know  what  my  especial  job  is  supposed 


THE  FEAST  221 

to  be.  George  has  his  writing  and  the  whole  place — fences, 
weeds,  horses,  dogs — anything  you  like.  He  fancies  himself 
Walter  Scott  at  Abbotsford,  and  is  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long;  Mrs.  Trenchard  has  the  village  and  the  inside  of  the 
house  (with  Katherine  her  lieutenant).  There  is  no  living 
soul  from  the  infant  of  a  week  to  the  old  man  of  ninety-seven 
(John  Wesley  Moyle — he  sees  visions)  who  does  not  have  his 
or  her  life  exactly  and  precisely  arranged.  Mrs.  Trenchard 
has  a  quiet  hypnotic  power  that  fills  me  with  terror,  because 
I  know  that  I  shall  soon  be  ranged  with  all  the  others.  She 
is  kindness  itself  I  am  sure,  and  no  cloud  passing  across  the 
sun's  face  makes  less  sound — and  yet  she  has  always  her  way. 
Oh,  Paul,  old  man,  I'm  frightened  of  her  as  I  have  never 
been  of  anyone  before.  When  I  see  her  here  I  want  to  run.  I 
had  a  horrible  dream  last  night.  The  terror  of  it  is  with  me 
still.  I  thought  that  I  said  good-night  to  everyone  and  went 
up  to  my  bedroom.  To  my  surprise  I  found  Mrs.  Trenchard 
there,  and  instead  of  my  usual  bed  was  an  enormous  feather- 
bed— an  enormous  one  stretching  from  wall  to  wall.  'You 
will  sleep  on  that  to-night,'  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  pointing  to 
it.  In  some  way  I  knew  that  if  I  once  lay  down  upon  it  I 
should  never  get  up  again.  I  said  'No,  I  would  not  lie 
down.'  'I  think  you'd  better/  she  said  in  her  slow  way. 
'I  think  you'd  better.'  'No !'  I  cried,  'I  defy  you !'  Instantly 
the  feather-bed  like  a  cloud  rose,  filled  the  room,  was  above 
me,  under  me,  around  me.  It  pressed  in  upon  me.  I  tore  at 
it,  and  the  feathers  floated  in  a  great  stifling  fog  against  my 
eyes,  up  my  nose,  in  my  mouth.  I  screamed  for  mercy,  I 
fought,  I  fell,  I  was  suffocating,  death  was  driving  down 
upon  me  ...  I  woke.  There's  nonsense  for  you !  And  yet 
not  such  nonsense  neither.  On  a  stuffy  day  here,  when  every- 
thing steams  and  the  trees  and  grass  and  hedges  close  up  about 
the  house  like  an  army,  when  Mrs.  Trenchard,  with  Kather- 
ine, is  arranging  meals  and  lives,  birth  and  death,  when,  try- 
ing to  escape  down  one  of  the  lanes,  they  rise  so  high  above 
one's  head  that  it's  like  being  drowned  in  a  green  bath,  I  tell 


222  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

you  the  feather-bed  is  not  so  far  away — suffocation  seems  no 
idle  dream.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  there's  nothing 
here  for  me  to  do.  It  didn't  matter  having  nothing  to  do  in 
Russia — although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  always  had  plenty, 
because  no  one  else  had  anything  to  do  that  couldn't  be 
stopped  at  any  moment  for  the  sake  of  a  friend,  or  a  drink,  or 
a  bit  of  vague  thinking.  I  suppose  it's  the  order,  the  neat- 
ness, the  punctuality  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  solid,  matter- 
of-fact  assumption  that  things  must  be  exactly  what  they  look 
(which  they  never  are)  that  fusses  me.  But  really  of  course 
I  came  down  here  to  make  love  to  Katherine — and  I  only  get 
a  bit  of  her.  She  cherishes  the  faith  that  I  want  the  family 
as  badly  as  I  want  her,  and  that  the  family  want  me  as  badly 
as  she  does.  She  has  got  a  thousand  little  duties  here  that  I 
had  never  reckoned  on,  and  they  are  like  midges  on  a  sum- 
mer's evening.  I  would  throw  myself  into  their  life  if  they 
would  let  me,  but  there  doesn't  seem  any  real  place  for  me. 
It's  fighting  with  shadows.  George  Trenchard  takes  me  for 
drives,  Millie,  Katherine's  sister,  takes  me  for  walks — Katie 
herself  is,  I  do  believe,  with  me  whenever  she  can  be.  ... 
I  ought  to  be  satisfied.  But  only  last  night  Great  Aunt  Sarah, 
who  is  in  her  dotage  (or  pretends  to  be),  said,  in  the  drawing- 
room  to  Millie,  in  a  loud  whisper,  'Who  is  that  young  man, 
my  dear,  sitting  over  there  ?  I  seem  to  know  his  face.'  That 
sort  of  thing  doesn't  exactly  make  you  feel  at  home.  With 
all  this,  I  feel  the  whole  time  that  they  are  criticising  me  and 
waiting  for  me  to  make  some  big  blunder.  Then  they'll  say 
to  Katherine,  'You  see,  my  dear !'  Oh,  of  course,  I'm  an  ass 
to  make  a  fuss.  Any  sensible  fellow  would  just  wait  his  year, 
marry  Katherine  and  say  good-bye  to  the  lot.  But  I  shan't 
be  able  to  say  good-bye  to  the  lot.  That's  the  whole  business 
.  .  .  partly  because  I'm  weak,  partly  because  Katherine 
adores  them,  partly  because  that  is,  I  believe,  Mrs.  T.'s  plan. 
To  absorb  me,  to  swallow  me,  to  have  me  ever  afterwards, 
somewhere  about  the  place,  a  colourless  imitation  of  the  rest 
of  them.  So  they'll  keep  Katie,  and  I'm  not  important 


THE  FEAST  223 

enough  to  matter.  That's  her  plan.  Is  she  stronger  than  I  ? 
Perhaps  after  all  I  shall  snatch  Katherine  from  them  and 
escape  with  her — and  then  have  her  homesick  for  ever  after. 
.  .  .  Why  am  I  always  imagining  something  that  isn't  here  ? 
Russia  poisoned  my  blood — sweet  poison,  but  poison  all  the 
same.  You'll  understand  this  letter,  but  if  George  Trenchard, 
or  indeed  any  ordinary  sensible  Englishman  were  to  read  it, 
what  an  ass  he'd  think  me!  'If  he  thought  more  about  the 
girl  he  was  going  to  marry  than  about  himself  he  wouldn't 
have  all  this  worry.'  But  isn't  it  just  that.  If,  in  nine 
months  from  now,  I,  swallowed  whole  by  Mrs.  T.,  marry 
Katie,  will  that  be  much  fun  for  her  ?  I  shall  be  a  sort  of 
shadow  or  ghost.  I  can  see  myself  running  Mrs.  Trenchard's 
errands,  hurrying  down  to  be  in  time  for  breakfast  (although 
she  never  scolds  anyone),  sometimes  waking,  seeing  myself, 
loathing,  despising  myself.  Ah !  Anna  would  understand  .  .  . 
Anna,  even  when  she  laughed,  understood  .  .  .  Anna  .  .  . 
I  don't  think  I  shall  send  this.  I'm  determined  to  drive  you 
all  from  me  until,  in  a  year's  time,  I  can  think  of  you  safely 
again.  I  described  Moscow  to  Katherine  in  the  train,  and 
speaking  of  it,  has  reminded  me  .  .  ." 

Katherine  could  not  remember  that  there  had  ever  been  a 
year  since  her  eighth  birthday  when  she  had  missed  "The 
Feast"  at  Eafiel.  "The  Feast"  was  held  always  on  the  24th 
of  March,  unless  that  day  were  a  Sunday:  it  had  been  held, 
old  Dr.  Pybus,  the  antiquarian  of  Pelynt,  said,  ever  since 
Phoenician  days.  To  Katherine  the  event  was  the  crowning 
day  of  the  spring.  After  the  24th  there  would  be,  of  course, 
many  cold,  blustering  days:  nevertheless  the  spring,  with 
primroses,  violets,  anemones  thick  in  the  four  valleys  that  ran 
down  to  Rafiel,  the  sky  blue  with  white  clouds  like  bubbles, 
the  stream  running  crystal-clear  over  the  red  soil,  the  spring 
was  here,  and  "The  Feast"  was  its  crowning. 

For  the  fishermen  and  their  families  "The  Feast"  meant  a 
huge  tea  in  the  Schools,  great  bonfires  on  the  Peak,  and  a 


224  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

dance  on  the  fish-market,  a  drink  at  'The  Pilchards,'  and, 
above  all,  for  the  younger  men  and  women,  love  and  engage- 
ments. It  was  on  "The  Feast"  day  that  the  young  men  of 
Rafiel  asked  the  young  women  whether  'they  would  walk 
out',  and  the  young  women  said  'yes'  or  'no'  according  to  their 
pleasure.  On  a  fine  night,  with  the  bonfires  blazing  to  the 
sky  and  showers  of  golden  sparks  like  fire-flies  over  the  quiet 
sea,  there  was  no  happier  village  in  the  world  than  Rafiel.  In 
its  little  square  harbour  the  stars,  and  the  fires  and  the  amphi- 
theatre-shaped village  looked  down  and  the  ghosts  of  the 
Phoenicians  peered  over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  sighed  for  the 
old  times  that  they  once  knew,  and  crept  at  last,  shivering, 
back  into  their  graves. 

This  was  to  be  the  greatest  "Feast"  that  Katherine  had 
ever  known,  because  Philip  was,  of  course,  to  be  with  her. 
It  was  to  be,  for  them  both,  the  crowning  of  their  love  by  the 
place,  the  soil,  the  good  Glebeshire  earth.  To  Katherine  it 
seemed  that  if  anything  untoward  happened  on  this  day,  it 
would  be  as  though  Glebeshire  itself  rejected  them.  She 
would  confess  to  no  one  how  solemn  it  seemed  to  her.  .  .  . 

Uncle  Tim  was  in  charge  of  the  party.  Timothy  Faunder 
had  not,  for  many,  many  years  missed  a  "Feast" ;  thither  he 
went,  his  outward  appearance  cynical  and  careless  as  ever, 
but  obeying,  inwardly,  more  sacred  instincts  than  he  would 
acknowledge.  He  would  be  in  charge  of  Katherine,  Millie, 
Philip,  Rachel — Henry  did  not  care  to  go. 

The  24th  of  March  was  wonderful  weather.  TJncle  Tim, 
coming  over  from  his  house  up  the  road,  to  luncheon,  said 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  finer  day.  He  said  this  to  his  sister 
Harriet,  standing  before  the  window  of  her  little  room,  look- 
ing down  upon  the  lawn  that  reflected  the  sunny  shadows  like 
a  glass,  looking  down  upon  the  clumps  of  daffodils  that 
nodded  their  heads  to  him  from  the  thick  grass  by  the  garden 
wall.  Harriet  was  very  fond  of  her  brother ;  she  had  an  inti- 
mate relationship  with  him  that  had  never  been  expressed  in 
words  by  either  of  them.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  She 


THE  FEAST  225 

was  sitting  now  writing  notes.  She  did  not  pause  as  she 
talked  to  him,  and  sometimes  she  rubbed  the  side  of  her  nose 
with  her  fingers  in  a  puzzled  way.  She  wrote  a  large  sprawl- 
ing hand,  and  often  spelt  her  words  wrongly. 

This  conversation  was  before  luncheon. 

"Well,  Harriet,"  Tim  said.    "How  are  you  ?" 

She  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  his  big,  loose,  untidy  body, 
his  shaggy  beard,  his  ruffled  hair. 

"Why  do  you  never  brush  your  hair,  Tim  ?  It's  such  a  bad 
example  for  Henry.  And  you're  standing  in  the  light.  .  .  „ 
Thank  you.  .  .  .  Oh — I'm  very  well.  Why  didn't  you  come 
in  last  night,  as  you  said  you  would?  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  quite 
well,  thank  you." 

"I  went  walking,"  said  Timothy.  "I  do  brush  my  hair, 
only  I  ana  not  going  to  put  grease  on  it  for  anybody  .  .  . 
How  do  you  like  the  young  man  ?" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  nodded  her  head  several  times  as  though 
she  were  adding  up  a  sum. 

"He  likes  it  here,  I  think,  although  of  course  it  must  be 
quiet  for  him — 'And  if  Tuesday — isn't  convenient — suggest 
— another  day — next  week !' ' 

"So  you  don't  like  him  even  so  much  as  you  expected  to  ?" 

"No."  She  answered  quite  abruptly,  spreading  her  large 
hand  flat  out  upon  the  table  as  though,  by  her  sudden  pounce, 
she  had  caught  a  fly.  "He's  weaker  than  I  had  fancied,  and 
vainer.  .  .  .  More  insignificant  altogether.  .  .  .  Miss  Pro- 
pert,  The  Close,  Polchester.  .  .  ." 

"He's  weak,  yes,"  said  Tim,  staring  down  upon  his  sister. 
"But  he  isn't  insignificant.  He's  weak  because  his  imagination 
paints  for  him  so  clearly  the  dreadful  state  of  things  it  would 
be  if  affairs  went  wrong.  He  wants  then  terribly  to  make 
them  right.  But  he  hasn't  the  character  to  do  much  himself, 
and  he  knows  it.  A  man  who  knows  he's  weak  isn't  insignifi- 
cant." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  made  no  reply. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?"  at  last  said  Tim. 


226  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Oh,  he'll  marry  Katherine  of  course." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then  they'll  live  here.  .  .  .  'Dear  Canon,  I  wonder 
whether  .  .  .'— " 

"And  then  ?" 

"And  then — why  then  it  will  be  just  as  it  is  now." 

"Oh!    I  see!" 

Timothy  turned  his  back  upon  her,  staring  down  upon  all 
the  green  that  came  up  like  a  river  to  the  walls  of  the  house. 
His  eyes  were  grave,  his  back  square,  his  hands  locked  tight. 
He  heard  the  scratching  of  his  sister's  pen — otherwise  there 
was  deep  silence  about  them.  He  wheeled  round. 

"Harriet,  look  here!  I've  never — no,  I  think,  never — 
asked  you  a  favour." 

She  turned  in  her  chair  and  faced  him,  looking  up  to  him 
with  her  wide,  rather  sleepy,  kindly  eyes — now  a  little  humor- 
ous, even  a  little  cynical. 

"No,  Tim — never,"  she  said. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  one  now." 

"Yes  ?"    Her  eyes  never  flickered  nor  stirred  from  his. 

"It's  this.  I  like  the  young  man — like  him,  for  God  knows 
what  reason.  I  think  I  must  myself  once  have  seen  the  world 
as  he  does.  I  know  I  believed  that  it  could  be  such  a  splendid 
world  with  such  a  little  effort — if  only  everyone  were  nice  to 
everyone.  I  understand  young  Philip — I  believe  that  this  is 
a  crisis  in  his  life  and  in  Katherine's.  There^are  three  pos- 
sible endings  to  the  engagement.  He  can  marry  her,  carry 
her  off  and  live  his  own  life.  He  can  marry  her,  not  carry 
her  off  and  live  your  life.  The  engagement  can  break  down, 
and  he  disappear  back  to  where  he  came  from.  You  love 
Katherine,  you  are  determined  not  to  lose  her,  therefore  you 
intend  to  make  the  first  impossible.  You  see  that  Katherine 
is  so  deeply  attached  to  him  that  it  will  break  her  heart  if  he 
goes — therefore  the  last  is  not  to  be.  There  remains  only  the 
second.  To  that  you  devote  all  your  energies.  You  are  quite 
selfish  about  it.  You  see  only  yourself  and  Katherine  in  the 


THE  FEAST  227 

matter.  You  see  that  he  is  weak  and  afraid  of  you.  .  .  . 
You  will  break  him  in,  then  turn  him  into  the  paddock  here 
to  graze  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  It  would  serve  you  right  if 
Katherine  were  to  run  away  with  him." 

"She  won't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard  quietly. 

"Who  knows  ?  I  wish  she  would,  but  she's  faithful,  faith- 
ful, faithful  down  to  the  soles  of  her  shoes.  .  .  .  Bless  her !" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  smiled.  "Dear  Tim.  You  are  fond  of  her, 
I  know.  .  .  .  There's  the  luncheon-bell." 

"Wait  a  minute."  He  stood  over  her  now.  "Just  listen. 
I  believe  you're  wrong  about  Katherine,  Harriet.  She's  old- 
fashioned  and  slow  compared  with  the  modern  girl — we're  an 
old-fashioned  family  altogether,  I  suppose.  It's  the  first  time 
she's  been  in  love  in  her  life,  and,  as  I  said  just  now,  she's 
faithful  as  death — but  she'll  be  faithful  to  him  as  well  as  to 
you.  Let  him  have  his  fling,  let  him  marry  her  and  carry  her 
off,  go  where  he  likes,  develop  himself,  be  a  man  she  can  be 
proud  of !  It's  the  crisis  of  his  life  and  of  hers  too — perhaps 
of  yours.  You  won't  lose  her  by  letting  her  go  off  with  him. 
She'll  stick  to  you  all  the  more  firmly  if  she  knows  that  you've 
trusted  him.  But  to  keep  him  here,  to  break  his  spirit,  to 
govern  him  through  his  fear  of  losing  her — I  tell  you,  Har- 
riet, you'll  regret  it  all  your  lifa  He'll  either  run  away  and 
break  Katie's  heart  or  he'll  stay  and  turn  into  a  characterless, 
spiritless  young  country  bumpkin,  like  thousands  of  other 
young  fellows  in  this  county.  It  isn't  even  as  though  he  had 
the  money  to  be  a  first-class  squire — just  enough  to  grow  fat 
(he's  rather  fat  now)  and  rotten  on.  Worse  than  dear 
George,  who  at  least  has  his  books. 

"And  he  isn't  a  stupid  fool  neither  .  .  .  he'll  always  know 
he  might  have  been  something  decent.  If  I  thought  I  had  any 
influence  over  him  I'd  tell  him  to  kidnap  Katie  to-morrow, 
carry  her  up  north,  and  keep  her  there." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  had  listened  to  him  with  great  attention ; 
her  eyes  had  never  left  his  face,  nor  had  her  body  moved. 


228  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

She  rose,  now,  very  slowly  from  her  chair,  gathered  her  notes 
together  carefully,  walked  to  the  door,  turned  to  him,  saying : 
"How  you  do  despise  us  all,  Tim !"  then  left  the  room. 

After  luncheon  they  started  off.  Philip,  sitting  next  to 
Katherine  in  the  waggonette,  was  very  silent  during  the 
drive ;  he  was  silent  because  he  was  determined  that  it  was  on 
this  afternoon  that  he  would  tell  Katherine  about  Anna. 

Without  turning  directly  round  to  her  he  could  see  her 
profile,  her  dark  hair  a  little  loose  and  untidy,  her  cheek 
flushed  with  pleasure,  her  eyes  smiling.  "No,  she's  not 
pretty,"  he  thought.  "But  she's  better  than  that.  I  can't 
see  what  she's  like — it's  as  though  she  were  something  so 
close  to  me  and  so  precious  that  I  could  never  see  it,  only 
feel  that  it  was  there.  And  yet,  although  I  feel  that  she's  un- 
attainable too — she's  something  I  can  never  hold  completely, 
because  I  shall  always  be  a  little  frightened  of  her." 

He  made  this  discovery,  that  he  was  frightened,  quite  sud- 
denly, sitting  there  on  that  lovely  afternoon ;  he  saw  the  shad- 
ows from  the  clouds,  swooping,  like  black  birds,  down  over  the 
valley  beneath  him :  far  beyond  him  he  saw  a  thread  of  yellow 
running  beside  the  water  of  the  stream  that  was  now  blue  in 
the  sunshine  and  now  dark  under  the  hill ;  there  were  hosts 
of  primroses  down  there,  and  the  hedges  that  now  closed  the 
carriage  were  sheeted  with  gold :  when  the  hedges  broke  the 
meadows  beyond  them  flowed,  through  the  mist,  like  green 
clouds,  to  the  hazy  sea;  the  world  throbbed  with  a  rhythm 
that  he  could  hear  quite  clearly  behind  the  clap-clap  of  the 
horses'  hoofs — 'hum — hum — hum — hum! —  The  air  was 
warm,  with  a  little  breath  of  cold  in  it ;  the  dark  soil  in  the 
ditches  glistened  as  though,  very  lately,  it  had  been  frozen. 

Riding  there  through  this  beautiful  day  he  was  frightened. 
He  was  aware  that  he  did  not  know  what  Katherine  would  do 
when  he  told  her.  During  his  years  in  Russia  he  had  grown 
accustomed  to  a  world,  inevitably,  recklessly,  voluble.  Rus- 
sians spoke,  on  any  and  every  occasion,  exactly  what  was  in 


THE  FEAST  229 

their  mind ;  they  thought  nothing  of  consequences  whether  to 
themselves  or  any  other;  their  interest  in  the  ideas  that  they 
were  pursuing,  the  character  that  they  were  discussing,  the 
situation  that  they  were  unravelling,  was  always  so  intense,  so 
eager,  so  vital  that  they  would  talk  for  days  or  weeks,  if 
necessary,  and  lose  all  sense  of  time,  private  feelings,  restraint 
and  even  veracity.  Philip  had  become  used  to  this.  Had 
Katherine  been  a  member  of  a  Russian  family  he  would,  two 
days  after  his  engagement,  have  had  everything  out  with  them 
all — he  would  have  known  exactly  where  he  stood.  With  the 
Trenchards  he  did  not  know  anything  at  all ;  from  the  mo- 
ment of  his  engagement  he  had  been  blindfolded,  and  now  he 
felt  as  though  in  a  monstrous  game  of  "Blind  Man's  -Buff" 
he  were  pushed  against,  knocked  on  the  elbows,  laughed  at, 
bumped  against  furniture,  always  in  black,  grim  darkness. 
Since  he  had  come  down  to  Garth  he  had  lost  even  Katherine. 
He  felt  that  she  was  disappointed  in  some  way,  that  she  had 
never  been  quite  happy  since  their  journey  together  in  the 
train.  Well,  he  would  put  everything  straight  this  afternoon. 
He  would  tell  her  about  Moscow,  Anna,  all  his  life — tell  her 
that  he  could  not,  after  their  marriage,  live  at  Garth,  that  it 
would  stifle  him,  make  him  worthless  and  useless,  that  she 
must  show  him  that  she  definitely  cared  for  him  more  than 
for  her  family.  .  .  . 

He  felt  as  though,  with  a  great  sweeping  stroke  of  his  arm, 
all  the  cobwebs  would  be  brushed  away  and  he  would  be  free. 
He  rehearsed  to  himself  some  of  the  things  that  he  would  say : 
"You  must  see,  dear,  that  the  family  don't  like  me.  They're 
jealous  of  me.  Much  better  that  we  go  away  for  a  year  or 
two — rigljt  away — and  allow  them  to  get  used  to  the  idea. 
Then  we  can  come  back." 

But  what  would  she  say  about  Anna  ?  Did  she  know  any- 
thing about  men,  their  lives  and  affairs?  Would  her  fine 
picture  of  him  be  dimmed  ?  He  hoped  a  little  that  it  would. 
He  wanted  simply  to  love  her,  that  she  should  understand 
him  and  that  he  should  understand  her,  and  then  they  two 


230  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

together  (the  world,  Garth,  the  Trenchards  blown  to  the 
wind)  should — 

"That's  Tredden  Cove,  that  dip  beyond  the  wood,"  said 
Katherine.  "We  used  to  go  there — 

Yes,  he  was  frightened.  He  felt  as  though  this  afternoon 
would  be  the  crisis  of  his  life.  (There  had  been  already  a 
great  many  crises  in  his  life.)  He  was  impatient ;  he  wanted 
to  begin,  now,  in  the  waggonette.  He  could  imagine  turning 
to  her,  saying :  "Katie,  darling,  I  want  to  tell  you — " 

He  was  conscious  that  Lady  Seddon  was  watching  him. 
"Jolly  day,  isn't  it  ?"  he  said.  He  thought  to  himself.  "She 
hates  me  as  the  others  do." 

They  had  come  to  the  Cross-Roads.  Jacob  put  on  the  drag, 
and  they  began,  very  slowly,  to  creak  down  a  precipitous  hill. 
The  fantastic  element  in  the  affair  that  Philip  had  been  ex- 
pecting as  a  kind  of  reply  to  his  own  sense  of  his  personal  ad- 
venture seemed  to  begin  with  this  hill.  It  resembled  no  ordi- 
nary hill ;  it  plunged  down  with  a  sudden  curve  that  seemed 
to  defy  the  wheels  of  any  carriage ;  on  their  right  the  bank 
broke  sheer  away  far  down  to  one  of  the  Rafiel  four  valleys, 
vivid  green  now  with  tufted  trees.  There  was  no  fence  nor 
wall,  and  one  slip  of  the  wheels  would  have  hurled  the  car- 
riage over.  At  a  turn  of  the  road  a  cluster  of  white  cottages, 
forming  one  figure  together  as  though  they  had  been  a  great 
stone  flung  from  the  hill-top  by  some  giant,  showed  in  the 
valley's  cup.  At  his  sense  of  that  remoteness,  of  that  lifting 
wildness  of  the  rising  hills,  at  the  beauty  of  the  green  and 
grey  and  silver  and  white,  he  could  not  restrain  a  cry. 

Katherine  laughed.  "That's  Blotch  End,"  she  said.  "One 
turn  and  we're  at  the  bottom."  The  carriage  wheeled  round, 
crossed  a  brown  bridge  and  had  started  down  the  road  to 
Rafiel.  .  .  .  On  one  side  of  the  road  was  a  stream  that,  hur- 
rying down  from  the  valley,  hastened  past  them  to  the  sea ;  on 
the  other  side  of  them  a  wooded  hill,  with  trees  like  sentinels 
against  the  sky — then  the  village  street  began,  ugly  at  first,  as 
are  the  streets  of  so  many  Glebeehire  villages,  the  straight, 


THE  FEAST  231 

uniform  houses,  with  their  grey  slate  roofs,  now  and  then 
hideous-coloured  glass  over  the  doorways,  and,  ugliest  of  all, 
the  Methodist  chapel  with  '1870'  in  white  stone  over  the  door. 
But  even  with  such  a  street  as  this  Rafiel  could  do  something: 
the  valley  stream,  hidden  sometimes  by  houses,  revealed  itself 
suddenly  in  chuckling,  leaping  vistas.  Before  the  houses 
there  were  little  gardens,  thick  now  with  daffodils  and  prim- 
roses and  hyacinths:  through  the  deep  mouth  of  the  forge 
fires  flamed,  and  a  sudden  curve  of  the  street  brought  a  bridge, 
a  view  of  the  harbour  and  a  vision  of  little  houses  rising,  tier 
on  tier,  against  the  rock,  as  though  desperately  they  were 
climbing  to  avoid  some  flood.  This  contrast  of  the  wild  place 
itself,  with  the  ugly  patches  of  civilisation  that  had  presented 
themselves  first,  was  like  the  voice  of  the  place  chuckling  at 
its  visitors'  surprise. 

First  the  row  of  villas,  the  tailor's  shop  with  a  pattern  pic- 
ture in  the  window,  the  sweet  shop,  the  ironmonger's — now 
this  sudden  huddle  of  twisted  buildings,  wildly  climbing  to 
the  very  sky,  a  high,  rugged  peak  guarding  the  little  bay,  two 
streams  tossing  themselves  madly  over  the  harbour  ridges, 
the  boats  of  the  fleet  rocking  as  though  dancing  to  some  mys- 
terious measure,  a  flurry  of  gulls,  grey  and  white,  flashing, 
wheeling,  like  waves  and  foam  against  the  sky,  the  screaming 
of  the  birds,  the  distant  thud  of  the  sea  .  .  .  this  was  Rafiel. 

They  left  the  carriage  and  turned  to  go  back  to  the  schools, 
where  the  tea  had  already  begun.  Katherine  slipped  her  arm 
into  Philip's :  he  knew  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak 
about  the  place,  and  he  knew,  too,  that  she  was  not  expecting 
his  praise  as  confidently  as  she  would  have  expected  it  three 
weeks  ago.  A  little  of  her  great  trust  in  him  was  shadowed 
by  her  surprise  that  he  had  not  surrendered  to  Glebeshire 
more  completely.  Now  he  could  tell  her  that  it  was  to  the 
Trenchards  and  not  to  Glebeshire  that  he  had  refused  to 
surrender. 

She  could  not  tell,  of  course,  that  all  his  attention  now  was 
fixed  on  his  determination  to  tell  her  everything  as  soon  as  he 


232  THE  GEEE1ST  MIRROR 

was  alone.  Walking  with  him  up  the  road  was  that  secret 
figure  who  attends  us  all — the  fine,  cherished  personality 
whom  we  know  ourselves  to  be. 

To  Philip,  more  than  many  others,  was  the  preservation 
of  that  secret  personality  essential.  He  was,  this  afternoon, 
determined  to  live  up  to  the  full  height  of  it. 

In  the  schools,  at  two  long  tables,  the  whole  village  waa 
feeding:  the  room  was  steaming  with  heat:  huge  urns  at  the 
ends  of  the  tables  were  pouring  out  tea  with  a  fierce,  scornful 
indifference,  as  though  they  would  show  what  they  could  do 
but  despised  their  company.  The  fishermen,  farmers,  their 
wives  and  families,  shining  with  soap,  perspiration  and  ex- 
citement, sat,  packed  so  tightly  together  that  eating  seemed  an 
impossibility:  there  were  plates  of  bread  and  butter,  saffron 
buns,  seed-cake  piled  up  and  running  over:  there  were  the 
ladies  of  the  village,  who  said :  "Now,  Mr.  Trefusis,  do  try 
another,"  or  "Mary's  rather  tired,  I  think,  Mrs.  Maxwell. 
Shall  I  lift  her  down  ?"  or  "Well,  Mrs.  Pascoe,  out  and  about 
again,  I  see,"  or  "How's  the  new  cottage,  Henry  ?  Better  than 
the  old  one,  I  expect." 

From  the  other  side  of  the  world  came :  "Aw,  thank  'ee, 
Ma'am — not  so  bad,  thank  'ee.  Up  to  Glossen's  Farm  they 
'ad  it  praper  wild,  so  they  tell  me" — "Yes  .  .  .  true  enough. 
All  over  spots  'er  arms  was,  poor  worm" — "Didn't  worry  we, 
thank  'ee,  Miss.  Marnin'  or  evenin'  all  the  same  to  we  ... 
Ah,  yes,  poor  Mr.  Izards — 'e  did  suffer  terrible,  poor 
dear.  .  .  » 

Philip  perceived  with  a  sense  of  irritated  isolation  how  in- 
stantly and  how  easily  the  other  members  of  his  party  were 
swallowed  up  by  the  Ceremony.  He  himself  was  introduced 
to  a  prim  young  woman  in  a  blue  hat,  who  flung  remarks  to 
him  over  a  tea-tray  and  seemed  to  regard  his  well-cut  clothes 
with  contempt.  The  fishermen  did  not  look  happy  in  their 
stiff  Sunday  clothes,  but  he  liked  their  faces.  They  reminded 
him  more  of  Russian  peasants  than  any  people  whom  he  had 


THE  FEAST  233 

seen  since  his  landing  in  England.  TvTo,  he  must  not  think 
about  that  .  .  .  Russia  was  banished  for  ever. 

Uncle  Timothy,  Millie,  even  Lady  Seddon  were  warmly 
welcomed,  but  Katherine  was  adored.  He  understood,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time,  what  that  place  must  mean  to  her. 
They  called  her  'Miss  Kathie',  they  shouted  to  her  across  the 
room,  they  cracked  jokes  with  her;  an  old  man,  with  a  long 
white  beard  like  a  prophet,  stood  up  and  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  as  he  talked  to  her.  Once  she  broke  away  from  them 
and  came  to  him. 

"Phil,  I  want  you  to  come  and  be  introduced  to  a  great 
friend  of  mine,"  she  said. 

He  followed  her,  feeling  that  all  eyes  watched  him,  with 
criticism  and  even  with  hostility.  A  large,  immensely  broad 
man,  in  a  navy  blue  suit,  with  a  red,  laughing  face,  hair  cut 
very  close  to  his  head,  and  eyes  of  the  honestest,  stood  up  as 
they  came  across.  He  looked  at  Katherine  with  the  devotion 
and  confidence  of  a  faithful  dog. 

"This  is  Mr.  Richard  Curtis,"  Katherine  said.  "He  used 
to  pick  up  shells  for  me  when  I  was  three.  He  has  a  boat 
here  with  his  brother.  He's  always  in  good  spirits,  aren't  you, 
Dick,  even  when  you  scald  your  arm  with  boiling  water  ?" 

This  was  an  allusion  to  some  confidence  between  them,  and 
as  their  eyes  met,  Philip  felt  a  pang  of  ridiculous  jealousy. 
The  man's  face  was  flaming,  and  his  eyes  were  more  devoted 
than  ever.  He  held  out  a  large,  horny  hand  to  Philip.  "Ex- 
cuse me,  sir,"  he  said.  "I'm  proud  to  shake  'ands  with  the 
man  wot  Miss  Katherine  is  goin'  to  marry.  We  thought, 
once  on  a  time,  p'raps  as  she'd  always  be  'ere,  along  with  we, 
but  wot  we  want  most  is  fer  'er  to  be  'appy — and  that  we 
knows  now  she  will  be.  I  'ope  you'll  be  often  down — along, 
sir,  in  time  to  come — that  is,  sir,  if  you're  not  goin'  to  take 
'er  right  away  from  us." 

"Why,  of  course  not,  Dick,"  said  Katherine.  "When 
we're  married  we're  going  to  live  quite  close.  You've  only 
got  to  find  us  a  house." 


234  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Philip  knew  that  he  should  say  something  pleasant;  he 
could  think  of  nothing;  he  muttered  a  few  words  and  then 
turned  away,  confused,  irritated,  embarrassed.  What  had 
happened  to  him  ?  He  was  always  so  pleasant  with  everyone, 
especially  with  strangers ;  now,  at  every  turn,  he  seemed  com- 
pelled by  someone  stronger  than  he  to  show  his  worst  side. 
"Oh,  if  I  can  only  get  Katherine  out  of  all  this,"  he  thought 
passionately,  "even  for  a  little  time.  Then  I'll  come  back 
another  man.  To  have  her  to  myself.  Everything's  coming 
between  us.  Everything's  coming  between  us.  .  .  ." 

At  last  he  had  his  desire.  They  had  left  the  others.  She 
had  led  him,  out  past  the  row  of  white  cottages,  to  a  rock  on 
the  side  of  the  hill,  high  over  the  sea,  with  the  harbour  below 
them,  the  village,  curved  like  a  moon  in  the  hills'  hollow, 
behind  the  harbour,  and  a  little  cluster  of  trees  at  the  hill  top 
striking  the  blue  night  sky :  opposite  them  was  the  Peak  rock, 
black  and  jagged,  lying  out  into  the  water  like  a  dragon 
couchant.  They  could  see  the  plateau  above  the  Peak  where 
the  bonfire  was  to  be,  they  could  see  the  fish-market  silver 
grey  in  the  evening  light,  and  the  harbour  like  a  green  square 
handkerchief  with  the  boats  painted  upon  it.  The  houses, 
like  an  amphitheatre  of  spectators,  watched  and  waited,  their 
lights  turning  from  pale  yellow  to  flame  as  the  evening  colours 
faded ;  crying,  singing,  laughing  voices  came  up  to  their  rock, 
but  they  were  utterly,  finally  remote.  She  leaned  her  head 
against  his  shoulder,  and  they  sat  there  in  silence. 

At  last,  half-dreamily,  gazing  forward  into  the  sea  that, 
stirred  by  no  wind,  heaved  ever  and  again,  with  some  sigh, 
some  tremor  born  of  its  own  happiness,  she  talked.  "You 
can  see  the  bonfire  and  the  figures  moving  around  it.  Soon 
the  moon  will  be  right  above  the  Peak.  .  .  .  Isn't  everything 
quiet  ?  I  never  knew  last  year  how  different  this  one  would 
be  from  any  that  I  had  ever  known  before."  She  turned  half 
towards  him,  caught  his  hand  and  held  it.  "Phil,  you  must 
be  very  patient  with  me.  I've  felt  so  much  that  you  were 
part  of  me  that  I've  expected  you  to  see  things  always  as  I 


THE  FEAST  235 

do.  Of  course  that  was  ridiculous  of  me.  You  cant  love 
this  place  quite  as  I  do — it  must  take  time.  .  .  .  You  aren't 
angry  with  me,  are  you  ?" 

"Angry?"  he  laughed. 

"Because  the  closer  I  get  to  you — the  longer  we're  engaged, 
the  less,  in  some  ways,  I  seem  to  know  you.  I  never  realised 
until  you  came  how  shut  up  as  a  family  we've  been,  how 
wrapt  up  in  ourselves.  That  must  be  hard  for  you  to  under- 
stand. .  .  ." 

"There  it  goes !"  he  broke  in  suddenly. 

The  bonfire  leapt  into  fire:  instantly  the  village  glowed 
with  flame,  a  golden  pool  burnt  beneath  the  Peak,  the  houses 
that  had  been  blue-grey  in  the  dusk  now  reflected  a  rosy  glow, 
and  whirling,  dancing  sparks  flew  up  to  join  the  stars.  Little 
black  figures  were  dancing  round  the  blaze ;  down  on  the  fish- 
market  other  figures  were  moving,  and  the  faint  echo  of  a 
fiddle  and  a  horn  was  carried  across  the  water. 

Something  said  to  Philip,  'Tell  her — now.' 

He  plunged  with  the  same  tightening  of  the  heart  that  he 
would  have  known  had  he  sprung  from  their  rock  into  the 
pools  of  the  sea  below  them.  He  put  his  arm  more  tightly 
around  her,  and  there  was  a  desperate  clutch  in  the  pressure 
of  his  fingers,  as  though  he  were  afraid  lest  she  should  vanish 
and  he  be  left  with  sky,  land  and  sea  flaming  and  leaping  be- 
neath the  fire's  blaze. 

"Katie,  I've  something  I  must  tell  you,"  he  said.  He  felt 
her  body  move  under  his  arm,  but  she  only  said,  very  quietly : 
"Yes,  Phil  ?"  Then  in  the  little  fragment  of  silence  that  fol- 
lowed she  said,  very  cosily  and  securely :  "So  long  as  it  isn't 
to  tell  me  that  you  don't  love  me  any  more,  I  don't  mind  what 
it  is?" 

"No — it  isn't  that.  It's  something  I  should  have  told  you, 
I  suppose,  long  ago.  I  would  have  told  you,  only  it  was  all 
so  over  and  done  with  for  me  that  I  couldn't  imagine  its  mat- 
tering to  anyone.  I  told  your  father  that  there  was  no  com- 


236  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

plication  in  my  life,  and  that's  true — there  is  none.  There's 
nothing  I  have  nor  think  nor  do  that  isn't  yours." 

She  said  very  quietly:  "You  were  in  love  with  someone 
before  you  knew  me  ?" 

He  was  surprised  and  immensely  reassured  by  the  quietness 
and  tranquillity  of  her  voice. 

"That's  it — That's  it,"  he  said,  eagerly,  his  heart  bounding 
with  relief  and  happiness.  "Look  here,  Katie.  I  must  tell 
you  everything — everything,  so  that  there  can't  be  anything 
between  us  any  more  that  you  don't  know.  You  see,  when  I 
went  to  Russia  first  I  was  very  young — very  young  for  my 
age  too.  Russia  isn't  much  of  a  place  when  you  don't  know 
the  language  and  the  weather's  bad — and  I'd  gone  expecting 
too  much.  I'd  heard  so  much  about  Russia's  hospitality  and 
kindness,  but  I  was  with  English  people  at  first,  and  most  of 
them  were  tired  to  death  of  Russia,  and  only  saw  its  worst 
side  and  didn't  paint  it  very  cheerfully.  Then  the  Russians 
I  did  meet  had  to  struggle  along  in  bad  French  or  English 
(it's  all  rot  about  Russians  being  great  linguists),  and  if  a 
Russian  isn't  spontaneous  he  isn't  anything  at  all.  Then 
when  I  did  go  to  their  houses  their  meals  simply  killed  me. 
They  make  one  eat  such  a  lot  and  drink  such  a  lot  and  sit  up 
all  night — I  simply  couldn't  stand  it.  So  at  first  I  was  aw- 
fully lonely  and  unhappy — awfully  unhappy." 

She  sighed  in  sympathy  and  pressed  closer  to  him. 

"I'm  not  the  sort  of  man,"  Philip  went  on,  "to  stand  being 
lonely.  It's  bad  for  me.  Some  men  like  it.  It  simply  kills 
me.  But  after  about  six  months  or  more  I  knew  a  little  Rus- 
sian, and  I  got  to  know  one  or  two  Russians  individually. 
There's  one  thing  I  can  tell  you — that  until  you  know  a  Rus- 
sian personally,  so  that  he  feels  that  he's  got  some  kind  of 
personal  part  in  you,  you  simply  don't  know  him  at  all.  It's 
so  easy  to  generalise  about  Russians.  Wait  until  you've 
made  a  friend.  ...  I  made  a  friend,  several  friends.  I  be- 
gan to  be  happier." 


THE  FEAST  237 

Katherine  pressed  his  hand.  The  bonfire  was  towering 
steadily  now  in  a  great  golden  pillar  of  smoke  and  flame  to 
heaven.  The  music  of  the  fiddle  and  the  horn,  as  though  they 
were  its  voice,  trembled  dimly  in  the  air:  all  the  stars  were 
shining,  and  a  full  moon,  brittle  like  glass,  flung  a  broad  silver 
road  of  light  across  the  black  Peak  and  the  sea.  There  was 
no  breeze,  but  the  scent  of  the  flowers  from  the  gardens  on 
the  rocks  mingled  with  the  strong  briny  odour  of  the  sea- 
pinks  that  covered  the  ground  at  their  feet. 

"The  spring  came  all  in  a  moment,  like  a  new  scene  at  the 
play.  I  was  introduced  to  some  theatre  people,  who  had  a 
house  in  the  country  near  Moscow.  You've  no  idea  of  the 
slackness  and  ease  of  a  Russian  country  house.  People  just 
come  and  go — the  doors  are  all  open,  meals  are  always  going 
on — there's  always  a  samovar,  and  sweets  in  little  glass  dishes, 
and  cold  fish  and  meat  and  little  hot  pies.  In  the  evening 
there  was  dancing,  and  afterwards  the  men  would  just  sleep 
about  anywhere.  I  met  a  girl  there,  the  first  Russian  woman 
who  had  attracted  me.  Her  name  was  Anna  Mihailovna,  and 
she  was  a  dancer  in  the  Moscow  Ballet." 

He  paused,  but  Katherine  said  nothing  nor  did  she  move. 

"She  attracted  me  because  she  had  never  known  an  English- 
man before,  and  I  was  exactly  what  she  had  always  thought 
an  Englishman  would  be.  That  pleased  me  then — I  wanted, 
I  even  felt  it  my  duty,  to  be  the  typical  Englishman.  It 
wasn't  that  she  admired  the  typical  Englishman  altogether: 
she  laughed  at  me  a  great  deal,  she  laughed  at  my  having 
everything  so  cut  and  dried,  at  my  dogmatising  so  easily,  at 
my  disliking  Russian  unpunctuality  and  lack  of  method. 

"She  thought  me  rather  ridiculous,  I  fancy,  but  she  felt 
motherly  to  me,  and  that's  what  most  Russian  women  feel  to 
most  men.  I  was  just  beginning  to  love  Russia  then.  I  was 
beginning  to  dream  of  its  wonderful  secrets,  secrets  that  no 
one  ever  discovers,  secrets  the  pursuit  of  which  make  life  one 
long,  restless  search.  Anna  fascinated  me — she  let  me  do 


238  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

always  as  I  pleased.  She  seemed  to  me  freedom  itself :  I  fell 
madly  in  love  with  her." 

Katherine's  hand  gave  then  a  sudden  leap  in  his;  he  felt 
the  ends  of  her  fingers  pressing  against  his  palm.  Some  of  his 
confidence  had  left  him:  some  of  his  confidence  not  only  in 
himself  but  in  his  assurance  of  the  remoteness  of  his  story  and 
the  actors  in  it.  He  felt  as  though  some  hand  were  dragging 
him  back  into  scenes  that  he  had  abandoned,  situations  that 
had  been  dead.  The  fire  and  the  sea  were  veiled,  and  his 
eyes,  against  their  will,  were  fastened  upon  other  visions. 

"That  year  was  a  very  wonderful  one  for  me.  We  took  a 
flat  together,  and  life  seemed  to  be  realised  quite  completely 
for  me.  This,  I  thought,  was  what  I  had  always  desired  .  .  . 
and  I  grew  slack  and  fat  and  lazy — outside  my  business — I 
always  worked  at  that  decently.  Early  in  the  next  year  we 
had  a  boy.  Anna  took  him  with  the  same  happy  indifference 
that  she  had  taken  me:  she  loved  him,  I  know,  but  she  was 
outside  us  all,  speculating  about  impossibilities,  then  sud- 
denly coming  to  earth  and  startling  one  with  her  reality.  I 
loved  her  and  I  loved  Moscow — although  sometimes  too  I 
hated  it — but  we  used  also  to  have  the  most  awful  quarrels; 
I  was  angry  with  her,  I  remember,  because  I  thought  that  she 
would  never  take  me  seriously,  and  she  would  laugh  at  me  for 
wanting  her  to.  I  felt  that  Russia  was  doing  me  no  good. 
Our  boy  died,  quite  suddenly,  of  pneumonia,  and  then  I 
begged  her  to  marry  me  and  come  and  live  in  England.  How 
she  laughed  at  the  idea!  She  didn't  want  to  be  married  to 
anyone.  But  she  thought  that  perhaps  England  would  bo 
better  for  me.  She  did  not  seem  to  mind  at  all  if  I  went. 
That  piqued  me,  and  I  stayed  on,  trying  to  make  myself  es- 
sential to  her.  I  did  not  care  for  her  then  so  much  as  for  my 
idea  of  myself,  that  she  would  break  her  heart  if  I  went.  But 
she  knew  that — how  she  would  laugh  as  she  looked  at  me.  .  .  . 
She  refused  to  take  me  seriously.  Russia  was  doing  me  harm 
— I  got  slack,  sleepy,  indifferent  I  longed  for  England. 
The  chance  came.  Anna  said  that  she  wa«  glad  for  me  to  go, 


THE  FEAST  239 

and  laughed  as  she  said  it.  I  took  my  chance.  .  .  .  I've  told 
you  everything,"  he  suddenly  ended. 

He  waited.  The  tune  across  the  water  went :  'La-la-la,  la, 
la-la-la-la,  la,  la.'  Many,  many  little  black  figures  were  turn- 
ing on  the  fish-market.  The  blaze  of  the  bonfire  was  low  and 
its  reflection  in  the  sea  smoking  red. 

When  he  had  finished  Katherine  had  very  gently  drawn 
her  hand  away  from  his,  then  suddenly,  with  a  little  fierce 
gesture,  pushed  it  back  again. 

"What  was  your  boy's  name  ?"  she  asked,  very  quietly. 

"Paul." 

"Poor  little  boy.    Did  you  care  for  him  very  much  ?" 

"Yes,  terribly." 

"It  must  have  been  dreadful  his  dying." 

He  felt  then  a  sudden  dismay  and  fear.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
she  was  going  to  dismiss  him ;  he  fancied  that  she  was  retreat- 
ing from  him — he  felt  already  that  she  was  farther  away  from 
him  than  she  had  ever  been,  and,  with  a  desperate  urgency, 
his  voice  trembling,  his  hand  pressing  her  arm,  he  said : 

"Katie — Katie — You're  disgusted  with  me.  I  can  feel  it. 
But  you  must  go  on  loving  me — you  must,  you  must.  I  don't 
care  for  anything  but  that.  All  men  have  had  affairs  with 
women.  It's  all  dead  with  me,  as  though  it  had  been  another 
man.  There's  no  one  in  the  world  but  you.  I — I — " 

His  hand  shook;  his  eyes,  if  she  could  have  seen  them, 
were  strained  with  terror. 

She  turned  to  him,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  drew  his 
head  towards  her,  kissed  him  on  his  eyes,  hia  mouth,  his 
cheeks. 

"Phil — Phil,"  she  whispered.  "How  little  you  understand. 
My  dear — my  dear." 

Then  raising  her  eyes  away  from  him  and  staring  again  in 
front  of  her,  she  said : 

"But  I  want  to  know,  Phil.  I  must  know.  What  was  she 
like?" 

"Like  ?"  he  repeated,  puzzled. 


240  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Yes.  Her  appearance,  her  clothes,  her  hair,  everything. 
I  want  to  be  able  to  see  her — with  my  own  eyes — as  though 
she  were  here.  .  .  ." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment — then,  very  slowly,  almost 
reluctantly,  he  began  his  description.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   VI 

SUNDAY 

ON  no  day  of  the  year — spring,  summer,  autumn,  or 
winter,  did  any  inhabitant  of  Garth  House  rise  before 
Rebekah.  Grimly  complete,  starch  and  stiff  and  taciturn,  she 
would  be  about  the  dim  house,  feeling  nothing  of  the  cold 
blackness  of  a  'winter  morning,  finding  apparently  no  pleasure 
in  the  beauty  of  a  summer  dawn.  Her  business  was  with  the 
House — human  beings  (yes,  Trenchards  as  well  as  the  rest) 
she  despised — for  Houses  she  could  feel  reverence  .  .  .  they 
were  stronger  than  she. 

Upon  the  Sunday  morning  that  followed  the  "Feast"  at 
Rafiel,  very  early  indeed,  she  was  moving  about  the  passages. 
Looking  out  on  to  the  lawn  and  bushes,  wet  with  mist,  she 
knew  that  it  would  be  a  bad  day.  .  .  .  Weather  mattered  to 
her  nothing:  people  (although  the  Trenchards  might  think 
otherwise)  mattered  to  her  nothing.  Her  business  was  with 
the  House.  .  .  . 

That  Sunday  began  badly  for  Aunt  Aggie — and,  therefore, 
for  everyone  else.  Before  she  woke — in  the  dusty  labyrinth 
of  her  half -waking  dreams — she  knew  that  her  tooth  was 
aching.  In  her  dreams  this  tooth  was  of  an  enormous  size, 
holding,  although  it  was  in  form  and  figure  a  veritable  tooth, 
a  huge  hammer  that  it  brought  down,  with  a  regular  beat, 
upon  Aunt  Aggie's  jaw.  She  screamed,  struggled,  fought, 
awoke — to  find  that  the  tooth  had  receded  to  its  proper  place 
and  size,  was  still  faintly  beating,  but  not  aching — only 
threatening.  This  threat  was,  in  its  way,  more  terrible  than 

241 


242  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

a  savage  ache.  When  would  the  ache  begin?  Ah,  here  it 
was!  .  .  .  no,  only  the  throb.  .  .  .  Would  hot  or  cold  food 
irritate  it  ?  Would  the  wind  ?  .  .  .  She  got  out  of  bed  and 
drew  her  blind.  Her  clock  told  her  that  the  hour  was  seven. 
Why  had  Annie  not  called  her  ?  Annie  had  overslept  herself 
— what  was  it  to  Annie  if  Aunt  Aggie  were  late  for  Early 
Service  ?  But  it  must  be  something  to  Annie.  Annie  must 
be  warned.  Annie  .  .  .  Aunt  Aggie  was  conscious  that  she 
had  a  headache,  that  the  weather  was  abominable,  and  that 
crossing  through  the  wood  to  the  church  would  certainly  start 
the  tooth.  But  she  waa  resolved.  Very  grimly,  her  mouth 
tightly  closed,  her  heart  beating  because  she  was  expecting 
that,  at  every  moment,  that  tooth.  .  .  .  Aunt  Aggie  had  her 
bath,  dressed,  informed  Annie,  who  came,  very  greatly  agi- 
tated, at  half-past  seven,  that  this  would  not  be  the  last  she 
heard  of  it,  walked  off  to  church.  During  the  singing  of  the 
collection  hymn  her  tooth  leapt  upon  her.  ...  It  came  to  her 
like  some  malign  and  secret  enemy,  who  would  influence  her 
not  so  deeply  through  actual  pain  as  through  his  insistence  on 
what,  please  God,  he  would  do  afterwards.  She  hurried 
home  to  breakfast  through  the  wet,  grey  morning,  saying  to 
herself :  "It  shall  not  ache !  I  forbid  it  to  ache !  You  hear 
me !  You  shall  not !"  and  always  that  sinister  whisper  replied 
in  her  ear :  "Wait.  Just  see  what  I'll  do  to  you  in  a  mo- 
ment." 

In  her  bedroom  some  iodine,  which  she  applied,  to  her  gum, 
reduced  the  inside  of  her  mouth  to  sawdust;  through  the 
dried  discomfort  of  it  all  her  enemy  still  beat  at  her  heart 
ironically. 

She  was  determined  that  the  tooth  should  not  alter  her  day. 
She  knew  how  easily  ordinary  human  beings  succumbed — 
such  weakness  should  not  be  hers.  Nevertheless  her  love  of 
honesty  compelled  her  to  admit  that,  this  morning,  the  house 
looked  horrible.  It  had,  as  she  had  often  told  Harriet,  been 
always  overcrowded  with  'things' — with  mats  and  jars  and 
pots  and  photographs,  old  books,  magazines,  ink-bottles,  china 


SUNDAY  243 

ornaments,  stones  and  shells,  religious  emblems,  old  calendars, 
and  again  photographs,  photographs,  photographs.  ...  It 
was  not  that  the  house  was  definitely  untidy,  but  that  once  a 
thing  was  there,  there  it  remained.  The  place  looked  like 
home,  because  it  was  filled  with  properties  that  any  new- 
comer would  instantly  discard.  Everything  was  dim  and 
faded — carpets,  curtains,  books,  pictures;  Katherine,  Millie, 
Henry  could  remember  how  the  water-colour  of  "Rpfiel 
Beach,"  the  photograph  of  Trezent  Head,  the  dining-room 
marble  clock,  surmounted  by  the  Goddess  Diana  minus  her 
right  leg,  the  book-case  in  the  drawing-room,  with  rows  and 
rows  of  the  novels  of  Anthony  Trollope  (each  in  three  vol- 
umes), the  cuckoo  clock  in  the  dark  corner  on  the  first  land- 
ing, the  glass  case  with  sea  shells  in  the  hall  near  the  hat- 
rack,  the  long  row  of  faded  Trenchard  and  Faunder  photo- 
graphs in  the  drawing-room,  the  little  corner  cupboard  with 
the  Sunday  games  in  it — Bible  Lotto,  puzzle  map  of  Pales- 
tine, Bible  Questions  and  JBible  Answers — all  these  things  had 
been  "first  there"  since  the  beginning  of  time,  even  as  the  oak 
on  the  lawn,  the  rough  grass  meadows  that  ran  to  the  very 
posts  of  the  house,  the  little  wood  and  the  tennis  lawn  with  the 
brown  hole  in  the  middle  of  it  had  always  been  'there.'  Aunt 
Aggie  herself  had  grown  profoundly  accustomed  to  it  all — 
in  her  heart  she  would  not  have  had  a  shell  nor  a  photograph 
removed  from  its  place.  Nevertheless,  upon  this  grey  Sunday 
morning  she  was  oppressed,  almost  triumphantly,  about  her 
sense  of  the  dinginess  and  confusion  of  the  house.  It  was 
as  though  she  said  to  herself:  "There!  it's  not  my  tooth  at 
all  that  makes  me  feel  out  of  sorts  with  things.  It's  simply 
Harriet's  inability  to  put  things  straight."  She  found  then 
that  everyone  was  very  quiet  at  breakfast — 'sulky*  one  could 
be  justified  in  calling  it.  Moreover,  there  were  'sausages 
again !'  Harriet  knew  perfectly  well  that  Aggie  hated  sau- 
sages— nevertheless  she  persisted,  with  the  devotion  of  a  blind 
slave  to  an  august  ritual,  in  having,  always,  sausages  for 
Sunday  breakfast.  Aggie  was,  in  spite  of  her  tooth,  hungry 


244  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

this  morning,  but  when,  with  an  unconscious  self-conscious- 
ness, during  a  silence,  she  said :  "No  sausage  for  me,  thanks. 
You  know,  Betty,  that  I  never  care  for  them."  No  one  said : 
"Have  an  egg,  Aggie:  it  can  be  boiled  in  a  moment." 

Only  Harriet,  with  her  attention  obviously  elsewhere,  re- 
marked carelessly :  "We  can  have  the  ham  in,  Aggie,  if  you 
like" — to  which  Aggie  could  only  reply:  "You  know  I  dis- 
like cold  ham,  Harriet." 

But,  indeed,  Sunday  breakfast  was  never  a  very  jolly  meal 
— how  could  it  be  ?  The  hour  was  throbbing  with  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  impending  difficulties  and  problems  of  the  day. 
There  was  Church,  there  was  Sunday  School,  there  were 
callers  in  the  afternoon:  there  were  meals,  the  very  heavy 
midday  meal  with  roast  beef  and  Yorkshire  pudding,  tea  with 
a  great  deal  of  stiff  conversation,  something  in  the  manner  of 
Ollendorff,  supper,  when  the  chill  on  the  food  typified  the 
exhausted  spirits  of  the  tired  company.  During  too  many 
years  had  Henry,  Millie,  Katherine,  and  still  more  Aggie, 
Betty  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  worn  Sunday  clothes,  eaten  Sun- 
day meals,  suffered  Sunday  restraint,  known  Sunday  exhaus- 
tion for  it  to  be  possible  for  any  of  them  to  regard  Sunday 
in  a  normal,  easy  fashion.  Very  right  and  proper  that  they 
should  so  regard  it.  I  would  only  observe  that  if  there  is  to 
be  a  thorough  explosion  of  Trenchard,  of  Faunder  tempers — 
if  there  is  to  be,  in  any  kind  of  way,  a  "family  scene"  Sunday 
will  be,  almost  certainly,  the  background  selected  for  it.  Aunt 
Aggie,  looking  around  her,  on  this  morning,  at  her  assembled 
friends  and  relations,  'thought  them  all  very  sulky  indeed. 
Wrapped  up  entirely  in  their  own  selfish  thoughts'.  .  .  .  The 
day  began  badly. 

Half  an  hour  before  church  Rachel  Seddon  and  Uncle  Tim 
were  alone  together  in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  standing, 
prepared  and  waiting,  staring  through  the  windows  at  the 
wild  meadow  that  seemed  now  soaked  with  moisture,  bent 
before  the  dripping  wind.  She  was  thinking  very  deeply. 
She  did  not  at  first  hear  Uncle  Tim,  and  when,  turning  sud- 


SUNDAY  245 

denly,  she  saw  him,  she  thought  how  exactly  he  suited  the 
day.  By  his  appearance  he  instantly  justified  the  atrocious 
weather :  he  was  wearing  a  rough  grey  suit  and  a  low  flannel 
collar :  his  beard  and  hair  glistened,  as  though  the  damp  had 
soaked  through  them,  he  carried  a  muddy  trowel  in  his  hand. 
He  came  hurriedly  into  the  room,  as  though  he  were  searching 
for  something.  Then  when  he  saw  Rachel  he  stopped,  put 
the  trowel  down  on  one  of  the  drawing-room  chairs,  smiled 
at  her,  and  came  across  to  her.  She  had  never  known  him 
very  well,  but  she  had  always  liked  him — his  genial  aloof- 
ness, the  sense  that  he  always  gave  of  absolute  independence, 
cheerful  but  never  dogmatic,  pleased  her.  Now  she  was  trou- 
bled, and  felt  that  he  could  help  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Katie  ?"  she  said,  abruptly,  look- 
ing at  him  with  sharp  but  deeply  honest  eyes. 

He  felt  in  his  tumbled  pockets  for  his  pipe  and  tobacco, 
then  slowly  said : 

"I  was  just  off  for  worms — I  wanted  Henry,  but  I  suppose 
he's  going  to  church.  .  .  .  Katie?  .  .  .  Why?" 

"I  don't  know  why.  I  want  to  know.  It's  been  these  last 
few  days — ever  since — ever  since — Saturday,  Friday,  Thurs- 
day— the  day  at  Rafiel.  She's  unhappy." 

"The  lovers  have  had  a  quarrel." 

"If  it  were  only  that !  ...  no,  that's  not  Katie,  and  you 
know  it  isn't.  Philip's  done  something — told  her  some- 
thing- 

"Ah,  you  think  that  because  you  dislike  him." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  do — now.  I  certainly  did  at  first,  but 
now — here  ...  I  don't  know.  He's  so  much  younger  than 
I'd  expected,  and  he  is  really  trying  his  best  to  suit  himself 
to  the  family  and  the  place.  I'm  sorry  for  him.  I  rather  like 
him  after  all.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  everyone  ?  Why 
is  the  house  so  uncomfortable?  Why  can't  it  all  be  just 
smooth  and  easy?  Of  course  we  all  hated  Katie  being  en- 
gaged at  first — I  suppose  we  thought  that  she  might  have 
done  better.  But  now  everyone  ought  to  be  used  to  it: 


246  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

instead  of  being  used  to  it,  it's  positively  'nervy'  the  at- 
mosphere." 

"It's  simply,"  said  Uncle  Tim,  pressing  down  his  tobacco 
into  his  pipe,  "the  attack  by  a  Young  Man  with  Imagination 
upon  a  family  without  any.  The  Young  Man's  weak  of 
course — people  with  imagination  always  are — he's  weak  and 
impatient,  and  insists  upon  everything  being  perfect.  All 
the  family  wants  is  to  be  let  alone — but  it  will  never  be  let 
alone  again.  The  break-up  is  beginning." 

"The  break-up  ?"  said  Rachel. 

"It's  like  this.  If  Harriet  catches  me  smoking  here  in  the 
morning  there'll  be  a  row."  He  picked  up  the  trowel  and 
waved  it.  "Nearly  the  whole  of  our  class  in  England  has, 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  last  century,  been  happily  asleep. 
It  isn't  good  for  people  to  have  a  woman  on  the  throne  for 
sixty  years — bless  her  all  the  same,  and  her  making  a  success 
of  it.  So  we've  slept  and  slept  and  slept.  The  Old  Lady 
died.  There  was  the  Boer  War :  there  were  motor-cars,  flying 
machines,  telephones.  Suddenly  England  was  an  island  no 
longer.  She's  got  to  pay  attention  to  other  people,  other 
ideas,  other  customs.  She's  got  to  look  out  of  her  window 
instead  of  just  snoozing  on  the  sofa,  surrounded  by  her  mid- 
Victorian  furniture.  Everything's  cracking:  new  classes  are 
coming  up,  old  classes  are  going  down.  Birth  is  nothing: 
autocracies  are  anachronisms.  ...  A  volcano's  coming. 
Everything  will  be  blown  sky-high.  Then  the  folk  who  are 
left  will  build  a  new  city — as  bad,  as  stupid,  as  selfish  as  the 
old  one,  perhaps — but  different  ...  as  different  as  Garth 
from  China  and  China  from  Paradise." 

"And  Katherine  and  Philip  ?"  said  Rachel. 

"Oh,  young  Mark's  just  one  of  the  advance-guard.  He's 
smashing  up  the  Trenchards  with  his  hammer — the  same  way 
that  all  the  families  like  us  up  and  down  England  are  being 
smashed  up.  If  it  isn't  a  young  man  from  abroad,  it's  a  letter 
or  a  book  or  a  telephone  number  or  a  photograph  or  a  suicide 
or  a  Lyceum  melodrama.  It  doesn't  matter  what  it  is.  The 


SUNDAY  247 

good  old  backbone  of  England  has  got  spine  disease.  When 
your  good  grandmother  died  your  lot  went;  now  our  lot  is 
going.  .  .  .  When  I  say  going  I  mean  changing." 

"There  was  a  funny  little  man,"  said  Kachel,  "whom  Uncle 
John  used  to  know.  I  forget  his  name,  but  he  talked  in  the 
same  way  when  grandmother  died,  and  prophesied  all  kinds 
of  things.  The  world  hasn't  seemed  very  different  since  then, 
but  grandmother  was  an  impossible  survival,  and  her  lot  went, 
all  of  them,  long  before  she  did.  All  the  same,  if  you'll  for- 
give me,  I  don't  think  that  England  and  possible  volcanoes 
are  the  point  for  the  moment.  It's  Katie  I'm  thinking  about. 
If  she's  unhappy  now  what  will  she  be  after  she's  married  to 
him  ? — If  Katie  were  to  make  an  unhappy  marriage,  I  think 
it  would  be  the  greatest  sorrow  of  my  life.  I  know  .  .  .  I've 
known  .  .  .  how  easily  things  can  go  wrong." 

"Ah,  things  won't  go  wrong."  Uncle  Tim  smiled  confi- 
dently. "Young  Mark's  a  good  fellow.  He'll  make  Kather- 
ine  happy  all  right.  jBut  she'll  have  to  change,  and  changing 
hurts.  She's  been  asleep  like  the  others.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes !  she 
has !  There's  no  one  loves  her  better  than  I,  but  she's  had,  in 
the  past,  as  much  imagination  as  that  trowel  there.  Perhaps 
now  Philip  will  give  her  some.  She'll  lose  him  if  she  doesn't 
wake  up.  He's  restive  now  under  the  heavy  hands  of  my  dear 
relations — He'll  be  gone  one  fine  morning  if  they  don't  take 
care.  Katie  must  look  out.  .  .  ."  He  waved  his  trowel  in 
the  direction  of  the  garden.  "All  this  is  like  a  narcotic.  It's 
so  safe  and  easy  and  ordered.  Philip  knows  he  oughtn't  to 
be  comfortable  here.  Katie,  Millie  and  Henry  are  beginning 
to  know  it.  Even  Harriet,  Aggie,  Betty,  George  will  get  a 
tiny  glimmering  of  it  one  day.  But  they're  too  old  to  change. 
That's  their  tragedy.  All  the  same,  you  see,  before  this  time 
next  year  George  will  be  proposing  to  take  Harriet  for  a  trip 
abroad — Italy  probably — a  thing  he's  never  done  since  the 
day  of  his  marriage." 

And  at  that  very  moment  George  entered,  very  smart  and 


248  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

big  and  red,  with  yellow  gloves  and  a  flower  in  his  button- 
hole. 

"What's  that  ?"  he  cried,  with  his  usual  roar  of  laughter. 
"Who  says  I'll  do  what?" 

"Take  Harriet  abroad  before  this  time  next  year,"  said 
Tim. 

"I?  ...  Not  much!  .  .  .  We  know  better  than  that. 
England's  good  enough  for  us.  There  isn't  a  spot  in  the 
world  to  touch  this  place  in  the  summer — so  why  should  we 
stir  ?  You'll  be  saying  we  ought  to  go  to  Russia  next,  .  .  . 
smoking  your  beastly  pipe  in  here  too.  Why  don't  you  dress 
decently  and  go  to  church  ?" 

A  Church  Invasion  followed.  The  Invasion  rustled  and 
listened  to  the  bell  that  called  across  the  garden.  'Corn-ing? 
.  .  .  Com-ing?  .  .  .  Com-ing?'  .  .  .  Then  'Come!  Come! 
Come !'  and  said :  "Where's  Katie  ?  ...  It  isn't  Litany  to- 
day, so  there'll  be  time  before  lunch.  Where's  Henry  ?  .  .  . 
We'd  better  start,  the  bell's  stopping.  Just  hold  my  prayer- 
book  a  minute,  Millie  dear,  whilst  I  do  this.  .  .  ." 

Finally  the  Invasion  called:  "Katie!  Katie!  Kather- 
ine!  .  .  .  We're  going!"  and  a  voice,  very  far  away  an- 
swered : 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I'll  catch  you  up!    Goon!" 

The  Invasion  left,  followed  by  Uncle  Tim,  smiling  to  him- 
self, the  trowel  in  his  hand.  The  house  was  very  still  then, 
relapsing  with  a  little  sigh  of  content  into  its  Sunday  quiet : 
a  bird  was  chattering  gently  to  itself  in  the  wet  garden. 

Katherine  hurried  into  the  drawing-room,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  buttoning  her  gloves,  her  prayer-book  under  her  arm. 
Her  black  dress,  a  little  open  at  the  front,  had  a  stiff  black 
lace  collar  at  the  back,  Elizabethan  fashion ;  now,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  was  wearing  something  that  she  had 
herself  thought  about  and  planned.  It  was  for  Philip.  .  .  . 

She  looked  about  the  empty  drawing-room,  then  hurried 
away  through  the  little  wood.  How  unlike  her  to  be  late! 
She  was  always  the  first  of  the  party.  But  to-day  she  had 


SUNDAY  249 

been  dreaming  in  her  bedroom,  sitting,  with  her  hands  in  her 
lap,  looking  out  of  the  window,  wondering,  longing  to  know 
.  .  .  No,  she  was  not  jealous.  Her  curiosity  had  no  tinge 
of  jealousy  in  it  Why  should  she  be  jealous  ?  Was  not  the 
thing  over,  closed?  Had  not  the  woman  herself  dismissed 
him?  That  strange  figure  in  that  strange  country!  The 
wild  town,  as  he  had  described  it,  like  a  village  with  towers 
and  towers,  gold  and  green  and  blue,  and  the  carts  with 
painted  roofs  and  the  strange  writing  on  the  shop-walls  .  .  . 
and  the  woman  standing  there,  in  the  middle  of  it.  This 
woman,  who  had  known  Philip  better  than  Katherine  knew 
him,  whom  Philip  had  madly  loved,  who  had  borne  Philip  a 
son.  She  was  still  living  there,  loving,  now,  perhaps  some- 
one else,  looking  back  perhaps  with  some  scorn  and  some  pity 
and  some  affection  to  the  days  when  Philip  had  kissed  her,  to 
the  hour  when  their  son  had  died,  to  that  first  meeting  in  the 
strange  country  house,  where  everyone  might  come  and  go  as 
they  pleased.  No,  there  was  no  jealousy;  but  Katherine 
wanted  to  have  her  there,  standing  in  front  of  her,  so  that  she 
might  study  her  clothes,  her  hair,  her  eyes.  Here  was  a 
woman  whom  Philip  had  madly  loved — and  he  had  ceased  to 
love  her.  Well,  he  might  also  cease  to  love  Katherine.  But 
that  other  woman  had  dismissed  him.  Fancy  dismissing  him ! 
When  one  had  shared  with  him  such  experiences  how  could 
one  ever  let  him  go?  ...  Ah,  what,  what  was  she  like? 
Was  her  voice  soft  or  harsh  ?  How  did  she  look  when  Philip 
made  love  to  her  ?  When  Philip  made  love  to  her.  .  .  .  Yes, 
there  was  pain  in  that. 

Katherine  hurried  under  the  low  porch  of  the  church. 
She  could  hear  the  voice:  'Wherefore  I  pray  and  beseech 
you,  as  many  as  are  here  present,  to  accompany  me  with  a 
pure  heart.  .  .  .' 

As  the  congregation  knelt  she  slipped  into  a  seat  at  the 
back  of  the  church.  She  had  always  loved  the  shabby,  ugly 
little  place.  It  had,  for  one  thing,  nothing  to  boast  about — 
had  no  fine  carvings  like  the  Rafiel  Church,  no  splendid 


250  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

tombs  like  the  two  Dunstan  St.  Firths  at  Poloynt,  no  won- 
derful glass  like  the  Porthcullin  memorial  window  at  Bor- 
haze;  frankly  ugly,  whitewashed,  with  thin  narrow  grey 
glass  in  the  side-walls  and  a  hideous  purple  Transfiguration 
above  the  altar,  with  plain,  ugly  seats,  a  terrible  modern  lec- 
tern, a  shabby  nondescript  pulpit,  a  font  like  an  expensive 
white  sweet,  and  the  most  shining  and  vulgar  brass  tablet 
commemorating  the  Garth  heroes  of  the  Boer  War. 

No  other  church  could  ever  mean  so  much  to  Katherine 
as  this,  her  shabby  friend.  She  was  glad  that  it  was  no 
show  place  for  inquisitive  tourists  to  come  tramping  over 
with  haughty  eyes  and  scornful  boasts.  It  was  her  own  .  .  . 
she  loved  it  because  strangers  would  always  say:  "How 
hideous !"  because  she  could  remember  it  on  wonderful  sum- 
mer evenings  when  through  the  open  doors  the  congregation 
could  hear  the  tinkling  sheep-bells  and  smell  the  pinks  from 
the  Rectory  garden,  on  wild  nights  when  the  sea  gales  howled 
round  its  warm,  happy  security,  on  Christmases,  on  Easters, 
on  Harvest  Festivals :  she  loved  it  on  the  evenings  when,  with 
its  lights  covering  its  plainness,  the  Garth  villagers  would 
shout  their  souls  away  over  "Onward,  Christian  soldiers"  or 
"For  all  the  Saints"  or  would  sink  into  sentimental  tenderness 
over  "Abide  with  me"  and  "Saviour,  again  to  Thy  dear 
name" ;  she  loved  it  because  here  she  had  been  sad  and  happy, 
frightened  and  secure,  proud  and  humble,  victorious  and  de- 
feated ...  as  this  morning  she  sank  on  her  knees,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  her  hands,  she  felt  at  first  as  though  her 
Friend  had  found  her,  had  encircled  her  with  His  arm,  had 
drawn  her  into  safety.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  after  a  little  while,  her  unrest  returned.  As 
Mr.  Smart  and  the  congregation  hurried  through  the  psalms 
for  the  day,  trying,  as  it  were,  to  beat  one  another  in  the 
friendly  race,  Katherine  felt  again  that  insistent  pressure 
and  pursuit.  Her  mind  left  the  church :  she  was  back  again 
with  Philip  at  Rafiel  .  .  .  and  now  she  was  searching  that 
mysterious  town  for  that  elusive,  laughing  figure.  Katherine 


SUNDAY  251 

had  in  her  mind  a  clear  picture ;  she  saw  a  woman,  tall  and 
thin,  a  dark  face  with  black,  ironical  eyes,  hair  jet  black,  a 
figure  alert,  independent,  sometimes  scornful,  never  tragic 
or  despairing.  "If  she  knew  me  she  would  despise  me"  .  .  . 
this  thought  came  flashing  like  a  sudden  stream  of  light  across 
the  church.  "If  she  knew  me  she'd  despise  me  .  .  .  despise 
me  for  everything,  even  perhaps  for  loving  Philip" — and  yet 
she  felt  no  hostility ;  of  a  certainty  no  jealousy,  only  a  little 
pain  at  her  heart  and  a  strange  conviction  that  the  world 
was  altered  now  simply  because  there  was  a  new  figure  in  it. 
And  there  were  so  many  things  that  she  wanted  to  know. 
Why  had  Anna  dismissed  Philip?  Was  it  simply  because 
she  was  tired  of  him?  Was  it  perhaps  for  his  own  sake, 
because  she  thought  that  he  was  wasting  his  life  and  character 
there.  No,  Anna  probably  did  not  think  about  his  character. 
.  .  .  Did  she  still  care  for  him  and,  now  that  he  was  gone, 
long  for  him?  Well,  Katherine  had  him  now,  and  no  one 
should  take  him.  .  .  .  Would  she,  perhaps,  write  to  Philip 
and  try  to  compel  him  to  return  ?  Did  she  think  of  the  son 
who  had  died  ?  Had  she  much  heart  or  was  she  proud  and 
indifferent  ? 

".  .  .  grant  that  this  day  we  fall  into  no  sin,  neither  run 
into  any  kind  of  danger:  but  that  all  our  doings  may  be 
ordered  by  Thy  governance  to  do  that  which  is  right.  .  .  ."' 
Mr.  Smart's  voice  brought  back  the  church,  the  choir  with 
two  girls  in  large  flowered  hats,  the  little  boys,  Mr.  Hart,  the 
butcher,  and  Mr.  Swithan,  the  grocer,  the  broad  backs  in  the 
family  pew.  Aunt  Aggie,  Aunt  Betty,  Henry,  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard,  Millie,  Philip,  George  Trenchard,  Rachel  Seddon  (the 
family  pew  was  a  hideous  box  with  a  door  to  it,  and  you 
could  see  only  the  top  half  of  the  Trenchards.  .  .  .  They, 
however,  could  see  everything:  Mrs.  Trenchard  could  see 
the  choir,  and  the  choir  knew  it).  Because  Katherine  was 
never  late,  therefore  was  she  denied  the  opportunity  of  study- 
ing the  Collective  Trenchard  Back.  To-day  she  had  it  in 
front  of  her,  and  it  seemed,  suddenly,  to  be  something  with 


252  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

which  she  herself  had  no  concern  at  all.  For  an  amazing, 
blinding,  and  most  desolating  moment  she  viewed  the  Tren- 
chards  as  a  stranger  might  view  them.  Her  loneliness  was 
appalling.  She  belonged  to  no  one.  She  had  no  place  nor 
country:  her  mother  and  Philip  had  left  her  .  .  .  only  a 
strange  woman,  watching  her  to  see  what  she  would  do, 
laughed  at  her.  As  she  stood  up  and  Mr.  Smart  gave  out  the 
hymn,  she  saw  that  there  was  a  hole  in  her  glove.  She  felt 
shabby  and  hot,  and  covered  the  hole  with  her  other  hand,  be- 
cause during  that  moment  she  was  positively,  actively  con- 
scious of  the  other  woman's  curious,  hostile  gaze;  then,  as 
the  hymn  began,  security  came  back  to  her — her  heart  beat 
quietly  again. 

"Why  were  you  late,  dear  ?"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  walking  back 
through  the  wood. 

"I  dawdled." 

"Dawdled!  How  unlike  you,  dear!  I  remember  years 
ago  when  I  dawdled  one  Sunday  mother  saying  .  .  .  Oh, 
dear,  there  it  begins  again  1" 

"Is  your  tooth  bad  ?" 

"Never  mind,  dear,  say  nothing  about  it.  The  last  thing 
I  should  wish  for  would  be  a  fuss.  I  thought  poor  Mr.  Smart 
at  his  very  worst  this  morning.  Since  his  last  child  was 
born  he's  never  preached  a  good  sermon.  Really,  it's  difficult 
to  be  patient  with  him." 

"Have  you  done  anything  for  it,  Aunt  Aggie  ?" 

"Iodine.   It  comes  and  goes.   If  it  were  only  steady.  .  .  ." 

Katherine  knew  that  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  to  be 
sympathetic,  but  all  that  she  could  think  of  in  her  head 
was,  "How  silly  to  worry  about  a  tooth !  How  silly  to  worry 
about  a  tooth!  .  .  ."  She  knew  at  once  that  Aunt  Aggie 
saw  that  she  was  unsympathetic,  and  that  she  resented  it 
deeply 

"Mind  you  say  nothing,  dear,"  she  said,  as  they  crossed 
the  lawn.  "You  know  that  I  hate  a  fuss."  And  Katherine, 


SUNDAY  253 

who  had  stopped  on  the  grass  and  was  staring  at  the  horizon, 
did  not  even  answer.  Then  Aunt  <Betty  came  up  and  said: 
"What  a  delightful  sermon!  Mr.  Smart  gets  better  and 
better." 

Aunt  Aggie  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

Meanwhile  Philip  also  had  been  unhappy.  He  did  frankly 
hate  an  English  Sunday,  and  to-day  the  damp-grey  heaviness 
overwhelmed  him,  so  that  he  was  almost  melodramatic  in  his 
resentment. 

Four  days  now  had  passed  since  the  "Feast",  and  he 
thought  that  they  had  been  the  worst  four  days  of  his  life. 
He,  positively,  had  not  slept :  he  had  been  driven  by  a  wild, 
uncertain  spirit,  inspiring  him  now  to  this  action  and  now 
to  that,  making  him  cry  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
"What  is  she  thinking  about  it  ?  Is  it  changing  her  love  for 
me?  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  doesn't  love  me  any  more,  and  is 
afraid  to  tell  me.  She  didn't  seem  angry  then  when  I  told 
her,  but  she  may  not  have  realised — now — "  He  wanted  her 
to  tell  him  everything,  and  he  wanted  her  also  never  to  allude 
to  the  affair  again.  He  had  confessed  to  her,  and  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said — and  yet  she  must  say  what  now,  after 
four  days,  she  felt  about  it.  Meanwhile  she  said  nothing  and 
he  said  nothing.  There  was  constraint  between  them  for 
the  only  time  since  their  first  meeting.  He  had  thought  that 
his  confession  would  have  smashed  the  cobwebs — it  had  only 
made  them  the  more  blinding. 

Meanwhile  it  was  all  so  desperately  serious  to  him  that 
he  simply  could  not  endure  the  watching  and  waiting  family. 
His  insistent  desire  that  'things  should  be  perfect'  had  from 
the  beginning  been  balked  by  the  family's  presence,  now  his 
sense  that  they  all  wanted  to  take  Katherine  away  from  him 
awoke  in  him  a  real  hysterical  nightmare  of  baffled  im- 
potence. He  would  willingly  have  strangled  Aunt  Aggie, 
Henry  and  Mrs.  Trenchard,  and  then  set  fire  to  the  house 
and  garden.  Then,  into  the  middle  of  it  all,  came  this 
impossible  Sunday. 


254  THE  GKEEN  MIRROR 

He  set  his  teeth  over  the  roast  beef,  Aunt  Aggie's  com- 
plaints and  George  Trenchard's  hearty  commonplace; 
directly  luncheon  was  over  he  seized  Katherine, 

"Look  here!  we  must  go  for  a  walk — now — at  once!" 

"My  dear  Phil!  I  can't — there's  my  Sunday  School  at 
three.  I  haven't  looked  at  anything." 

"Sunday  School!  Oh,  my  God!  .  .  .  Sunday  School! 
Look  here,  Katie,  if  you  don't  walk  with  me  first  I  shall  go 
straight  down  to  the  village  pond  and  drown  myself." 

"No,  you  mustn't  do  that".  She  seemed  quite  grave 
about  it.  "All  right — wait  for  me.  I'll  be  down  in  two  min- 
utes." 

They  set  off  along  the  road  to  Pelynt  Cross,  the  thin  sea 
mist  driving  in  their  faces. 

He  broke  out:  "I  must  go  away  from  here.  To-mor- 
row, at  once — I  simply  can't  stand  it  any  longer." 

"Can't  stand  what  ?" 

"Seeing  you  swallowed  up  by  the  family,  who  all  hate 
me  and  want  to  get  rid  of  me.  You  yourself  are  changing 
— you  aren't  frank  with  me  any  longer.  You  don't  say  what 
you  think.  What  use  am  I  here  anyway  ?  What  good  is  it 
my  hanging  round  doing  nothing  ?  I'm  sick  of  it.  I'm  los- 
ing you — I'm  miserable.  A  Sunday  like  this  is  enough  to 
make  one  commit  murder." 

She  put  her  hand  inside  his  arm  and  drew  him  closer  to 
her. 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  she  said.  "You've  been  wondering 
why  I  haven't  spoken  to  you  about  what  you  told  me  the 
other  day.  You've  been  thinking  that  I  ought  to,  haven't 
you?" 

"No,  it's  only  that  I've  wondered  whether  perhaps  you've 
changed  your  mind  since  then.  Then  you  didn't  seem  to  be 
angry,  but,  thinking  about  it  afterwards — " 

"Why,  Phil,"  she  said,  "how  could  there  be  anything  dif- 
ferent? It's  all  gone,  finished.  You  don't  suppose  that  I 
ever  imagined  that  you'd  never  loved  another  woman  before 


SUNDAY  255 

you  met  me.  I'm  interested,  that's  all.  You've  told  me  so 
little  about  her.  I'd  like  to  know  all  sorts  of  things — even 
quite  little  unimportant  things — " 

"It  would  be  much  better,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  we  just 
left  it  and  didn't  talk  about  it." 

"But  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  talk  about  it?"  she 
cried.  "How  funny  you  are!" 

"No,  I  didn't  want  you  to  talk  about  it.  It's  only  that  I 
didn't  like  there  being  constraint — I  don't  see  why  you  should 
care.  It's  like  talking  about  someone  who's  dead." 

"But  she  isn't  dead.  Do  you  suppose,  Phil — would  she, 
do  you  think,  like  you  to  go  back  ?" 

"No,  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't — at  least  I  don't  think  so." 

"Was  she  the  kind  of  woman  who  forgets  easily,  who  can 
put  people  out  of  her  life  just  as  she  wants  to  ?" 

"Anna  .  .  ."  His  voice  lingered  over  the  name.  "No,  I 
don't  think  she  ever  forgot.  She  was  simply  independent." 

"Would  she  think  of  your  boy  and  want  him  back  ?" 

"She  might."  He  suddenly  stopped.  "She  might.  That 
evening  he  was  so  ill  she — " 

Katherine  looked  across  the  fields  to  Pelynt  Cross,  dim  and 
grey  beneath  the  rain. 

"She  had  a  heart,  then,"  she  said  slowly. 

He  suddenly  wheeled  about  with  his  face  to  Garth.  He 
spoke  sharply  and  roughly  in  a  voice  that  she  had  never  heard 
him  use  before. 

"Don't,  Katie — leave  her  alone.  What  do  you  go  on  about 
her  for  ?" 

"But  if  it's  all  dead?" 

"Oh,  drop  it,  I  say !    That's  enough." 

She  knew  that  she  was  a  fool,  but  something — or  was  it 
somebody  ? — drove  her  on. 

"But  you  said  just  now  that  you  wanted  me  to  be  frank." 

His  voice  was  a  cry. 

"You'll  drive  me  mad,  Katie.  You  don't  seem  to  have  any 
conception — " 


256  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Very  well.    I  won't  say  anything." 

They  were  quite  silent  after  that :  the  silence  swelled,  like 
a  rising  cloud,  between  them :  it  became  impossible  to  break 
it  ...  they  were  at  Garth  gates,  and  they  had  not  spoken. 
She  would  have  said  something,  but  he  turned  abruptly  off 
into  the  garden.  She  walked,  with  her  head  up,  into  the 
house. 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  arranged  her  Sunday  School 
books,  felt  suddenly  a  grinding,  hammering  fatigue,  as  though 
she  had  been  walking  all  day ;  her  knees  were  trembling  and 
her  throat  was  dry.  She  sat  by  her  window,  looking  down 
on  to  the  garden,  where  the  sea  mist  drove  in  walls  of  thin 
rain  against  the  horizon.  Behind  the  mist  the  trees  seemed 
to  peer  at  her  as  though  they  were  wondering  who  she  was. 
"I  don't  care,"  she  thought,  "he  shouldn't  have  spoken  to  me 
like  that."  But  how  had  it  happened  ?  At  one  moment  they 
had  been  so  close  together  that  no  force,  no  power,  would 
separate  them — a  word  and  they  had  been  so  far  apart  that 
they  could  not  see  one  another's  eyes. 

"I  don't  care.    He  shouldn't— " 

She  got  up,  rubbed  her  cheeks  with  her  hand  because  they 
were  burning,  and,  with  a  glance  at  Philip's  photograph 
(someone  she  had  known  years  ago  and  would  never  know 
again),  went  out.  The  house  was  silent,  and  she  met  no  one. 
As  she  crossed  the  lawn  she  thought :  "How  absurd !  We've 
quarrelled — a  real  quarrel" — then — "It  wasn't  my  fault.  He 
shouldn't — "  She  held  her  head  very  high  indeed  as  she 
walked  down  the  road  to  the  Bridge,  but  she  saw  no  one,  felt 
no  rain  upon  her  cheek,  was  not  conscious  that  she  was  mov- 
ing. At  the  door  of  the  Schools  she  saw  Mrs.  Smart,  and 
heard  someone  say  quite  sensibly  and  happily: 

"We're  early.  There  won't  be  many  this  afternoon,  I 
expect." 

"Mrs.  Douglas  has  told  me  that  she  won't  be  able  to  come — 
I  wonder,  Katie,  whether  you'd  mind  taking — " 

"Why,  of  course." 


SUNDAY  257 

Mrs.  Smart  was  little  and  round  and  brown  like  a  pippin. 
She  was  always  breathless  from  having  more  to  wrestle  with 
than  she  could  grasp.  She  was  nervous,  too,  and  short- 
sighted, and  the  one  governing  motive  of  her  life  was  to 
bear  her  husband  a  son.  She  had  now  four  daughters;  she 
knew  that  her  husband  felt  it  very  deeply.  She  had  once  un- 
burdened herself  to  Katherine,  but,  after  that,  had  been  shyer 
with  her  than  before.  Katherine,  against  her  will,  had  been 
often  irritated  by  Mrs.  Smart — she  had  wondered  at  her 
restlessness  and  incapacity  to  keep  up  with  the  business  in 
hand,  but  to-day,  out  of  the  sinister  gloom  of  that  horrible 
afternoon,  the  little  woman  seemed  to  Katie  suddenly  sym- 
pathetic, eloquent,  moving.  Katie  could  hear  her  voice, 
rather  husky,  rather  uncertain,  on  that  afternoon  of  her  con- 
fession :  ".  .  .  and  we  did  really  hope  that  Lucy  would  be  a 
boy,  we  really  did.  He  would  have  been  called  Edward. 
Harold  has  such  plans  for  a  son — we  have  often  thought 
together  what  we  would  do  ...  and  now,  I'm  afraid.  .  .  ." 

Inside  the  schoolroom  door  Katie  paused,  looked  at  the 
room  with  the  bare  benches  arranged  in  squares,  the  shining 
maps  of  the  world  and  Europe,  the  case  with  beetles  and 
butterflies,  the  hideous  harmonium. 

She  suddenly  caught  Mrs.  Smart's  hand  and  pressed  it 
through  the  damp  little  glove.  She  knew  that  Mrs.  Smart 
would  be  surprised — she  had  never  been  demonstrative  to  her 
before.  .  .  .  She  moved  to  her  part  of  the  room,  three  only 
of  her  class  were  present,  and  to  these  were  added  two  small 
boys  from  another  division. 

"Now,  children,"  said  Mr.  Smart's  cheerful  voice  (he 
always  spoke  to  boys  as  though  he  were  luring  animals  into 
a  cage),  "let  us  start  with  hymn  No.  436,  shall  we?"  After 
the  hymn,  a  prayer,  and  then,  for  an  hour  that  subdued,  re- 
strained hum  which  belongs  to  the  Sunday  School  only ;  being 
religious  as  well  as  disciplined,  persuasive  as  well  as  obedient. 
Katherine  now  was  very  proud — as  she  said :  "Well,  Robin, 
and  what  did  Moses  do  then?"  she  was  thinking — "But  he 


258  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

must  come  to  me — that's  fair.  It  was  not  my  fault.  He 
blamed  me  first  for  not  speaking,  and  afterwards  when  I 
did  speak.  .  .  .  Besides,  if  it's  all  over  and  finished,  why 
should  he  mind  ?"  She  looked  very  young  as  she  sat  there, 
her  mouth  hard  and  set  and  her  eyes  full  of  trouble.  Her 
sensation  was  as  though  she  had  been  suddenly  marooned ;  the 
desolation,  the  terror,  the  awful  loneliness  came,  as  the  eve- 
ning fell,  creeping  up  towards  her.  "Suppose  he  never  makes 
it  up — Suppose  he  goes  away  and  leaves  me."  She  caught 
her  hands  tightly  together  on  her  lap  and  her  breath  suddenly 
left  her. 

"Yes,  Johnny.    His  name  was  Aaron.    That's  right." 

The  ordeal  was  over;  she  was  hurrying  back  through  the 
dusk  to  the  lighted  house.  She  went  up  again  to  her  room, 
and  sat  down  again  by  the  window.  She  listened.  The 
house  was  very  still,  but  she  thought  that,  perhaps,  he  would 
guess  that  she  was  here,  in  her  bedroom,  and  would  come  up. 
She  wished  that  her  heart  would  stop  beating  so  that  she 
might  hear  the  better. 

She  listened  to  every  sound,  to  distant  voices,  to  the  whim- 
per of  rain  upon  the  window,  to  the  sharp  crack  of  some  shut- 
ting door.  Her  whole  mind  now  was  concentrated  upon  his 
coming:  her  eyes  left  the  window  and  turned  to  the  door. 
She  waited.  .  .  . 

Quite  suddenly,  as  though  someone  else  had  commanded 
her,  she  began  to  cry.  She  did  not  move  her  hands  to  her 
face,  but  little  dry  sobs  shook  her  body.  She  hated  herself 
for  her  weakness,  and  then  that  very  contempt  broke  her  down 
completely,  so  that  with  her  hands  pressed  against  her  face, 
desolately  and  almost,  it  might  seem,  ironically,  she  wept. 
Through  her  crying  she  heard  the  door  open,  and,  looking 
up,  saw  her  mother  there.  Mrs.  Trenchard  closed  the  door 
very  carefully.  "Why,  Katherine !"  she  said  in  a  whisper, 
as  though  this  were  a  matter  simply  between  the  two  of 
them.  "I  came  to  see,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  "whether  you 
weren't  coming  in  to  tea.  The  Drakes  are  here." 


SUNDAY  259 

It  was  no  use  to  pretend  that  she  had  not  been  crying. 
She  rubbed  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  turning  her  back 
for  a  moment  on  her  mother  and  gazing  down  on  to  the 
dark  lawn  that  had  all  melted  now  into  the  rain.  Then, 
when  she  had  gained  her  control,  she  faced  the  room  again. 

"It's  nothing,  mother.  I've  had  a  headache.  It's  better. 
I'll  lie  down  a  little  and  then  come  in.  Is  Agnes  Drake 
here  ?" 

"Yes.     She  wants  to  see  you." 

"Well.    I'll  come." 

But  Mrs.  Trenchard  did  not  go  away.  Her  large  soft 
eyes  never  left  her  daughter's  face. 

"What's  really  the  matter,  dear?" 

"Really — a  headache.  This  weather  and  then  Sunday 
School.  I  felt  bad  in  church  this  morning." 

"You've  been  unlike  yourself,  dear,  for  some  days." 

"No,  mother — I've  been  just  the  same." 

"You've  been  unhappy." 

Katherine  raised  her  head  proudly  and  gave  back  her 
mother's  gaze. 

"There's  been  nothing — nothing  at  all — " 

But  Mrs.  Trenchard's  eyes  never  faltered.  She  suddenly, 
with  an  action  that  was  full  of  maternal  love,  but  love  re- 
strained by  fear  of  its  rejection,  love  that  had  tenderness 
in  its  request  to  be  accepted,  raised  her  hands  as  though 
she  would  take  her  daughter,  and  hold  her  safe  and  never 
let  her  depart  into  danger  again. 

"Katie — "  her  voice  was  soft,  and  she  let  her  hands  fall 
again.  "Give  it  up,  dear.  Break  the  engagement.  Let  him 

go-" 

Katherine  did  not  answer,  but  she  raised  her  head  higher 
than  it  had  been  before,  and  then,  suddenly,  as  though  the 
irony  of  her  whole  relationship  with  her  mother,  with  Philip, 
with  the  very  world  itself,  had  driven  in  upon  her,  she 
smiled. 

Mrs.   Trenchard  went  on:    "You  aren't  happy,   Katie, 


260  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

darling.  We  all  notice  it.  It  was  so  sudden,  the  engagement. 
You  couldn't  tell  at  the  time.  But  now — I've  never  said 
anything,  have  I  ?  You've  seen  that  I've  been  perfectly  fair, 
but  you  know  that  I've  never  liked  him — I  said  give  it  its 
chance.  But  now  that  he's  been  down  here,  you  can  judge 
how  different  we  all  are — it's  plain  that  it  won't  do.  Of 
course  you  couldn't  tell  at  the  time.  But  now — " 

"Ah,"  Katherine  said  quietly,  "that's  why  you  asked  him 
here.  I  wondered." 

At  the  sudden  hostility  in  ^Catherine's  voice  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard  started.  Then,  quite  timidly,  as  though  she  were  asking 
some  great  favour,  she  said: 

"You  mustn't  be  angry  with  me  for  that.  I  only  care  about 
your  happiness.  I'm  older — If  I  think  that  you  are  not  go- 
ing to  be  happy  I'm  worried  and  distressed  of  course.  What 
can  he  be  to  me  compared  with  you  ?  And  lately  you  yourself 
have  been  different — different  to  all  of  us  ...  Yes  .  .  . 
You  know  that  if  I  thought  that  he  would  make  you 
happy.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  was  quickly  sharp  sounding  on  a 
trembling,  quivering  note.  "Katie — give  him  up.  Give  him 
up.  There'll  be  somebody  much  better.  There  are  all  of  us. 
Give  him  up,  darling.  Tell  him  that  you  don't  love  him  as 
you  thought  you  did." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Katherine,  her  voice  low.  "I  love 
him  more  than  ever  I  thought  I  could  love  anything  or  any- 
one. I  love  him  more  every  day  of  my  life.  Why  you — all 
of  you — "  She  broke  away  from  her  fierceness.  She  was 
gentle,  putting  her  hand  against  her  mother's  cheek,  then 
bending  forward  and  kissing  her. 

"You  don't  understand,  mother.  I  don't  understand  my- 
self, I  think.  But  it  will  be  all  right.  I  know  that  it 
will.  .  .  .  You  must  be  patient  with  me.  It's  hard  for  him 
as  well  as  for  you.  But  nothing — nothing — can  change  me. 
If  I  loved  him  before,  I  have  twice  as  much  reason  to  love 
him  now." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  looked  once  more  at  Katherine,  as  though 


SUNDAY  261 

she  were  seeing  her  for  the  last  time,  then,  with  a  little 
sigh,  she  went  out,  very  carefully  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

Meanwhile,  another  member  of  the  Trenchard  family, 
namely  Henry,  had  found  this  especial  Sunday  very  difficult. 
He  always  hated  Sunday  because,  having  very  little  to  do 
on  ordinary  days  of  the  week,  he  had  nothing  at  all  to  do 
on  Sunday.  Never,  moreover,  in  all  his  life  before  had 
the  passing  of  time  been  so  intolerably  slow  as  it  had  during 
these  last  weeks.  The  matter  with  him,  quite  simply,  was 
that  his  imagination,  which  had  been  first  stirred  on  that 
afternoon  of  Philip's  appearance,  was  now  as  lively  and  hun- 
gry as  a  starved  beast  in  a  jungle.  Henry  simply  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with  himself.  Miserably  uncertain  as  to 
his  right  conduct  in  the  matter  of  Philip  and  Katherine, 
speculating  now  continually  about  adventures  and  experiences 
in  that  wider  world  of  which  he  had  had  a  tiny  glimpse, 
needing  desperately  some  definite  business  of  preparation  for 
business  that  would  fill  his  hours,  and  having  nothing  of  the 
sort,  he  was  left  to  read  old  novels,  moon  about  the  fields 
and  roads,  quarrel  with  Millie,  gaze  forebodingly  at  Kath- 
erine, scowl  at  Philip,  have  some  moments  of  clumsy  senti- 
ment towards  his  mother,  bite  his  nails  and  neglect  his  ap- 
pearance. He  began  to  write  a  novel,  a  romantic  novel  with 
three  men  asleep  in  a  dark  inn  and  a  woman  stealing  up  the 
ricketty  stairs  with  a  knife  in  her  hand.  That  was  all  that 
he  saw  of  the  novel.  He  knew  nothing  at  all  about  its  time 
nor  place,  its  continuation  nor  conclusion.  But  he  heard  the 
men  breathing  in  their  sleep,  saw  the  moonshine  on  the 
stairs,  smelt  the  close,  nasty,  beery  smell  of  the  tap-room 
below,  saw  the  high  cheek-bones  and  large  nose  of  the  woman 
and  the  gleaming  shine  of  the  knife  in  her  hand. 

He  walked  for  many  miles,  to  Rafiel,  to  St.  Lowe,  to 
Dumin  Head,  inland  beyond  Rasselas,  to  Pendennis  Woods, 
to  Polchester,  to  the  further  side  of  Pelynt — and  always,  as 


262  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

he  walked  with  his  head  in  the  air,  his  Imagination  ran 
before  him  like  a  leaping,  towering  flame.  The  visions  before 
his  soul  were  great  visions,  but  he  could  do  nothing  with 
them.  He  thought  that  he  would  go  forth  and  deliver  the 
world,  would  love  all  men,  prostitutes,  lepers,  debauchera 
(like  Philip) ;  he  flung  his  arms  about,  tumbled  over  his 
untidy  boot  laces,  saw  life  as  a  gorgeous-tinted  plain,  with 
fame  and  glory  awaiting  him — then  returned  to  Garth,  quar- 
relled with  Millie,  sulked  and  bit  his  nails. 

This  was  a  hard  time  for  Henry., 

He  had  determined  that  he  would  not  present  himself  in 
the  drawing-room  at  tea-time,  but  when  half-past  four  ar- 
rived, the  afternoon  had  already  stretched  to  such  ghastly 
lengths  that  something  had  to  be  done.  He  came  slipping, 
stumbling  downstairs,  and  found  Philip,  with  a  waterproof 
turned  up  over  his  ears  and  every  sign  of  the  challenger  of 
wild  weather,  standing  in  the  hall.  Henry  would  have  passed 
him  in  silence,  but  Philip  stopped  him. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  in  a  low  mysterious  voice,  "will  you 
do  something  for  me  ?" 

"What  ?"  said  Henry,  suspiciously. 

"I'm  going  out  for  a  long  walk.  Shan't  be  back  until  sup- 
per. Give  this  letter  to  Katherine,  and  tell  her  I  want  her 
to  read  it  before  I  get  back." 

"Why  don't  you  give  it  to  her  yourself  ?  She's  up  in  her 
room." 

"Because  I  want  you  to." 

Henry  took  the  letter,  and  Philip  was  gene,  sending  into 
the  house  a  little  gust  of  cold  wind  and  rain  as  he  plunged 
through  the  door.  Henry  looked  after  him,  shook  his  head  as 
though  the  destinies  of  the  world  were  on  his  shoulders,  put 
the  letter  into  his  pocket  and  went  into  the  drawing-room. 
The  Drake  family  was  calling.  There  were  Mrs.  Drake,  old 
and  sharp  and  weather-beaten,  like  a  sign  post  on  the  top 
of  a  hill;  her  son,  Francis  Drake,  who,  unlike  his  famous 
namesake,  seemed  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  about  any- 


SUNDAY  263 

thing,  was  thin  and  weedy,  with  staring  eyes,  and  continually 
trying  to  swallow  his  fist;  and  little  Lettice  Drake,  aged 
seven,  fifteen  years  younger  than  any  other  in  the  family; 
her  parents  had  never  entirely  got  over  their  surprise  at  her 
appearance :  she  was  sharp  and  bony,  like  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Trenchard,  Aunt  Aggie  and  Millie  were  entertaining ;  Great- 
Aunt  Sarah  was  seated  in  state,  in  black  silk  and  white  cap, 
and  her  stern  eye  was  fixed  upon  Mr.  Drake,  whose  appear- 
ance she  did  not  like.  This  made  Mr.  Drake  very  nervous. 

Afternoon-tea  on  Sunday  comes  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  day  seems  most  unbearable — Later,  at  about  six  o'clock, 
Sunday  fatigue  will  happily  begin  to  descend  and  envelop  ita 
victims,  but  at  half-past  four  one  is  only  able  to  remember 
that  it  is  a  mistake  to  have  so  large  a  meal  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  that  Sunday  clothes  are  chill  and  uncomfortable,  and 
that  all  the  people  in  whom  one  has  the  least  interest  in  life 
will  shortly  make  their  appearance. 

There  is  also  the  prospect  of  evening  service,  followed  by 
cold  supper :  the  earlier  hours  of  the  day  stretch  now  behind 
one  at  so  vast  and  unwieldy  a  length  that  it  seems  impossible 
that  one  will  ever  reach  the  end  of  the  day  alive.  Aunt 
Aggie  felt  all  this — she  also  hated  the  Drakes.  She  saw  that 
Henry,  moody  in  a  corner  by  himself,  regarded  her  with  a 
cynical  eye :  her  tooth,  which  had  been  quiet  since  luncheon, 
was  throbbing  again.  She  endeavoured  to  be  pleasant  to 
little  Lettice,  although  she  hated  children,  and  she  knew 
that  children  knew  it. 

"Wonderfully  she's  grown!"  she  said,  bending  down  to- 
wards the  child,  who  watched  her  with  cold  curiosity.  "And 
what's  your  favourite  game  now,  Lettice  ?  Too  old  for  dolls, 
I  expect." 

There  was  no  reply. 

"Tell  Miss  Trenchard  about  your  games,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Drake. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"You  must  come  and  play  here  one  day,  dear,"  said  Aunt 


264  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Aggie.  "Such  a  big  room  as  we've  got  upstairs — and  lota 
of  toys.  You'd  like  that,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"She's  shy,  I  expect,"  said  Mrs.  Drake.  "So  many  chil- 
dren are." 

Aunt  Aggie  drew  nearer  to  Lettice. 

"You  mustn't  be  shy  with  me,  dear.  I'm  so  proud  of  chil- 
dren. You  shall  have  such  a  piece  of  cake  in  a  minute!" 

But  with  a  little  movement  of  her  bony  fingers  Lettice 
Drake,  in  a  voice  of  chill  detachment,  said: 

"You've  got  a  thpot  on  your  faith,"  referring  to  a  little 
black  mole  on  Aunt  Aggie's  right  cheek.  The  voice  was  so 
chill,  the  indifference  so  complete  that  the  failure  of  Aunt 
Aggie's  tactics  was  obvious  to  the  dullest  onlooker.  Unfor- 
tunately Henry  laughed;  he  had  not  intended  to  laugh:  he 
did  not  feel  at  all  in  a  humorous  mood — but  he  laughed  from 
nervousness,  discomfort  and  disgust.  He  knew  that  Aunt 
Aggie  would  not  forgive  this  ...  he  hated  quarrels  with 
Aunt  Aggie.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  her  back  told  him 
what  she  was  thinking.  He  wished,  bitterly,  that  he  had 
more  self-control ;  he  knew  that,  of  all  possible  insults,  Aunt 
Aggie  would  regard  most  bitterly  a  mock  at  her  appearance 
in  a  public  place.  The  Drakes  might  be  considered  a  public 
place. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said :  "Where's  Katie  ?  You'd  like  to  see 
her,  Agnes,  I'm  sure.  Perhaps  she  doesn't  know  you're  here. 
I'll  see.  I  know  you'd  like  to  see  her."  Mrs.  Trenchard  went 
away.  Then  Aunt  Sarah,  who  had  been  hitherto  absolutely 
silent,  began,  her  eye  never  leaving  Mrs.  Drake's  face. 

"You're  the  daughter  of  Aggie  Mummings,  whom  I  used 
to  know.  You  must  be.  Poor  Aggie  ...  I  remember  your 
mother  quite  well — a  feeble  thing  always,  never  knowing 
her  mind  and  always  wanted  people's  advice.  I  used  to  say 
to  her :  'Aggie,  if  you  let  men  see  how  feeble  you  are  you'll 
never  get  married' — but  she  did  after  all — which  shows  you 
never  can  tell — I  think,  Millie,  I'll  have  some  more  hot  in 


SUNDAY  265 

this  .  .  .  yes,  I  remember  your  mother  very  well,  poor 
thing." 

"I've  heard  her  speak  of  you,  Miss  Trenchard,"  said  Mrs. 
Drake. 

Mr.  Drake  suddenly  attacked  Millie. 

"Well  now — about  Paris — you  know — very  different  from 
this  hole,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Very  different,"  said  Millie.  "But  I  don't  consider  this 
<a  hole'." 

"Don't  you  now?  Well — that's  very  interesting.  Don't 
you?  ...  /do." 

Millie  had  nothing  to  say. 

"It's  slow,  you  know — horrid  slow — just  weather,  7  call  it. 
Whether  it's  raining  or  not,  you  know — .  Yes  ...  I  wonder 
you  don't  find  it  slow  after  Paris." 

"I  was  at  school  there,  you  see,"  said  Millie.  "It's  differ- 
ent when  you're  at  school." 

"I  suppose  it  is.  Yes,  I  s'pose  so."  He  began  to  cram 
his  fist  into  his  mouth,  was  surprised  at  its  boniness,  regarded 
it  gravely,  said :  "Well,  yes  ...  I  s'pose  so  ...  Yes  .  .  . 
Well  .  .  ."  and  was  silent. 

Then  Mrs.  Trenchard  at  last  returned:  Katherine  was 
with  her.  Henry  at  once  saw  that  Katherine  had  been  cry- 
ing. The  effect  of  this  discovery  upon  Henry  was  elemental 
in  its  force.  He  had,  during  all  his  life,  regarded  Kath- 
erine as  almost  omnipotent  in  her  strength  and  wisdom.  He 
had,  moreover,  always  thought  to  himself:  "One  day  she 
will  have  her  reward,"  and  his  vision  of  Katherine's  future 
happiness  and  glory  had  been  one  of  his  favourite  dreams. 
Now  that  cad  had  been  making  her  cry.  .  .  .  He  was,  at 
that  moment,  on  the  very  edge  of  making  a  scene  ...  he 
would  fling  Philip's  letter  down  there,  in  front  of  them, 
Drakes  and  all.  He  would  cry:  "There!  that's  from  the 
beast  who's  been  making  her  cry — and  I  tell  you  he's  a  cad. 
He  had  a  woman  for  years  in  Russia  and  had  a  son  too — 
that's  the  kind  of  fellow  he  is."  But  Katherine  was  smiling 


266  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

and  laughing.  The  Drakes  certainly  would  not  see  that  she 
had  been  crying:  even  Millie  did  not,  apparently,  notice  it; 
Millie,  having  done  her  duty  by  the  Drakes,  was  going  up- 
stairs to  write  letters.  She  said  good-bye  and  left  the  room 
.  .  .  two  minutes  later  Henry  slipped  out  after  her. 

He  caught  her  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"I  say,"  he  said.  "Come  into  my  room  for  a  minute.  I've 
got  something  to  tell  you." 

"Oh,  bother,"  answered  Millie.    "I  want  to  write  letters." 

"Never  mind.    You  must.    It's  important." 

"Aren't  the  Drakes  awful  ?"  she  said,  standing  inside  his 
door  and  observing  the  disorder  of  his  room  with  a  scornful 
lip. 

"Yes,  they  are,"  said  Henry.  "Wasn't  Aunt  Aggie  angry 
when  I  laughed  ?" 

"A  silly  sort  of  thing  to  do  anyway.  What  a  room !  You 
might  put  those  clothes  away,  and  why  can't  you  have  another 
shelf  for  the  books  ?  That  table— " 

"Oh,  rot !  Dry  up !"  Henry  moved  about  uneasily,  kick- 
ing a  book  along  the  floor.  "I've  got  something  I  want  to — I 
can't  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer." 

"What  is  it  ?    About  Philip  and  Katie  ?" 

"No,  not  about  Katie.  At  least — not  unless  he's  told  her. 
It's  about  Philip." 

"What  is  it  ?"  Millie  said  again. 

"He's  the  most  awful  cad — an  absolute  outsider.  I've 
known  it  for  weeks,  only  I  haven't  decided  what  to  do." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Millie  said,  slowly.  "You  don't  know 
enough  about  men  to  tell  whether  a  man's  an  outsider  or 
not  .  .  .  What's  he  done  ?" 

"In  Russia — in  Moscow — he  had  a  mistress  for  years — 
and  they  had  a  son.  He's  never  said  anything  about  it,  but 
it's  true.  They  say  he  had  an  awful  reputation  in  Moscow." 

"Who's  'they'  ?"  said  Millie,  slowly.  The  colour  mounted 
into  her  cheeks. 


SUNDAY  267 

"A  man  I  know — a  friend  of  Seymour's.  Oh !  I  know  it's 
true.  There  isn't  any  sort  of  doubt  about  it." 

"I  daresay  it  is.  Men  are  like  that,"  Millie  said,  with 
profundity. 

"Decent  men  aren't.  Not  the  sort  of  man  who  will  marry 
Katie." 

Millie  said  nothing,  and  there  was  a  long  silence  in  the 
room.  Then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  Millie  said: 

"If  it  is  true  what  does  it  matter  if  it's  all  over  ?" 

"Perhaps  it  isn't.  Besides,  if  he's  that  kind  of  man  he'll 
do  it  again.  And  anyway,  if  Katie  were  to  know — " 

"Ah !  if  Katie  were  to  know — " 

They  stood  there,  young  (very  young)  defenders  of  Kath- 
erine.  They  would  both  of  them,  always,  afterwards  remem- 
ber that  moment,  that  hour,  that  Sunday.  There  came  for 
both  of  them,  suddenly,  an  active,  urgent  demand  on  their 
participation  in  a  sudden  adventure,  a  real,  serious  adventure, 
and  they  simply  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it.  With 
neither  of  them  was  their  apprehension,  disgust,  dismay  so 
great  as  their  curiosity.  The  first  thing,  after  the  pause,  that 
Millie  said  was: 

"I  wonder  what  she's  like,  that  other  woman  I  mean." 

Henry  had  been  wondering  for  weeks.  He  now  produced 
his  conclusions. 

"It's  my  idea,"  he  said,  "that  she  was  simply  bored  with 
him,  couldn't  endure  him  any  longer.  I  expect  they,,  had 
awful  rows — Russians  do,  you  know,  and  Philip's  got  a  tem- 
per I  should  think.  Then  he  came  home,  and — sort  of  to  save 
his  pride  because  the  other  woman  had  kicked  him  out — 
made  love  to  the  first  woman  he  saw.  Katherine  was  the 
first,  you  know." 

Millie  felt  a  momentary  surprise  at  her  brother's  unex- 
pected cleverness.  Then  she  shook  her  head :  "No,  I'm  sure 
it's  not  that.  He  loves  Katherine,  I  know,  anyone  can  see 
it." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Henry,  with  sudden  volcanic  happiness, 


268  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"he's  making  her  awfully  miserable.  She  was  crying  this 
afternoon,  and  I've  got  a  letter  in  my  pocket  now  that  he 
told  me  to  give  to  her  for  her  to  read  while  he  was  out.  .  .  . 
They've  had  a  quarrel." 

"Perhaps  he's  told  her." 

"If  he's  making  her  unhappy — " 

"I  wonder  what  she  thinks  about  it — " 

Henry's  thought,  with  all  the  simplicity  that  was  in  his 
real  nature,  was  only  of  Katherine.  Millie,  although  she 
loved  her  sister,  was  absorbed  by  the  vision  of  life — dramatic, 
tragic,  gay,  sinister,  rapturous — that  was  slowly  being  un- 
folded before  her.  What  she  would  have  liked  would  have 
been  for  both  Philip  and  Katherine  to  have  told  her,  minutely 
and  precisely,  how  the  affair  appeared  to  them.  How  she 
could  listen  to  them  if  they  made  her  their  confidante !  Mean- 
while she  must  content  herself  with  Henry. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  she  asked. 

"Do!  .  .  .  There  are  things  I  can  do,"  he  hinted  darkly. 
"Meanwhile,  you  just  keep  your  eyes  open  and  see  whether 
he's  bad  to  Katherine.  If  he  is  we  must  stop  it.  That's  all 
that  matters." 

"I  wonder  what  she  was  like — that  other  woman,"  Millie 
said,  not  looking  at  Henry,  but  at  her  own  reflection  in  his 
looking-glass,  then,  without  another  word  to  him,  she  turned 
and  left  the  room. 

After  she  had  gone  he  wondered  whether  he'd  been  wise  to 
tell  her.  She  had  offered  no  advice,  she  had  not  even,  he 
thought,  been  immensely  interested,  she  had  certainly  been,  in 
no  way,  shocked. 

"Girls  are  queer"  was  his  final  reflection.  When  the  bell 
began  to  ring,  with  its  strange  little  questioning  invitation, 
he  suddenly  thought  that  he  would  go  to  church.  He  some- 
times found  evening  service,  with  its  candles  and  old  familiar 
tunes  and  star-lit  sky,  romantic  and  moving:  to-night  he  felt 
that  his  restlessness  and  indecision  must  be  influenced.  He 
came  downstairs,  and  found  Katherine  standing  and  staring 


SUNDAY  269 

through  the  little  window  to  the  left  of  the  hall  door.  She 
started  when  she  heard  his  voice,  as  though  she  had  been  lost 
in  her  own  company. 

"I've  got  a  letter  for  you,"  he  said,  roughly.  "From 
Philip.  He's  gone  out  for  a  long  walk  until  supper,  and 
he  said  you  were  to  read  it  before  he  came  back." 

He  gave  it  her.  She  said  nothing.  He  turned  abruptly 
away;  and  faced  his  mother. 

She  had  on  her  black  Sunday  hat  and  was  buttoning  her 
gloves. 

"I'm  going  to  church." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  "I  think  we  shall  be  the  only 
ones.  Unless  Katherine's  coming." 

"No,  I'm  not  coming,"  said  Katherine. 

He  walked  away  with  his  mother,  feeling  self-conscious 
with  her,  as  he  always  did,  but  to-night,  whether  from  some 
especial  sense  of  gloom,  of  dripping,  wet  trees,  of  wind  and 
rain,  or  from  some  real  perception  of  agitation  in  his  mother, 
he  felt  a  strong  impulse  of  protection  towards  her.  He 
would  have  liked  to  have  put  his  arm  through  hers,  to  have 
defied  the  world  to  harm  her,  to  run  and  fetch  and  carry  for 
her,  to  help  her  in  any  possible  way.  He  had  felt  this  before, 
but  he  had  never  known  how  to  begin,  and  he  knew  that  any 
demonstration  of  any  kind  would  embarrass  them  both  ter- 
ribly. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said  things  like: 

"Those  two  shirts  of  yours,  Henry — those  last  two  blue 
ones — have  shrunk  terribly.  I'll  never  go  to  that  place  in 
Oxford  Street  again.  They've  shrunk  so  dreadfully,"  or  "If 
you  think  you'd  rather  have  those  thicker  socks  next  time  you 
must  tell  me.  .  .  .  Do  you  like  them  better?" 

Henry  was  always  vexed  by  such  questions.  He  thought 
that  he  should  have  been  managing  his  own  clothes  at  hia 
age,  and  he  also  could  not  be  bothered  to  give  his  mind 
seriously  to  socks. 

"I  don't  know,  mother." 


270  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"But  you  must  care  for  one  or  the  other." 

"No,  I  don't." 

"I  think  the  thick  ones  are  better.  They  don't  feel  quite 
BO  comfortable  perhaps.  .  .  .  Ah!  there's  the  bell  stopping. 
We  shall  be  late." 

In  church,  influenced  by  the  fickering  candles,  the  familiar 
chants,  the  sense  of  a  cosy  and  intimate  trust  in  a  Power  who 
would  see  one  safely  through  the  night,  just  as  one's  burning 
night-light  had  guarded  one  when  one  had  been  very  small, 
Henry  became  sentimental  and  happy.  He  looked  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eye  at  his  mother,  at  the  so  familiar  wave  of 
her  hair,  the  colour  and  shape  of  her  cheek,  the  solid  comfort 
of  her  figure,  and  suddenly  thought  how  old  she  was  looking. 
This  came  as  a  revelation  to  him :  he  fancied  that  even  in  the 
last  week  there  had  been  a  little  change.  He  moved  closer  to 
her :  then  he  saw  that  her  eye  was  fixed  upon  a  small  choir- 
boy who  had  been  eating  sweets.  The  eye  was  stern  and  so 
full  of  command  and  assurance  that  Henry's  sentiment  sud- 
denly shrivelled  into  nothing.  His  mother  wanted  nobody's 
help — he  sighed  and  thought  about  other  things.  Soon  he 
was  singing  "Abide  with  me"  in  his  ugly,  untuneful  voice, 
pleased  that  the  choir  lingered  over  it  in  an  abominable  fash- 
ion, trying  now  and  then  to  sing  'second',  and  miserably  fail- 
ing. 

But,  although  he  did  not  know  it,  Mrs.  Trenchard  had 
realised  her  son's  mood.  .  .  . 

So,  at  last,  tired,  a  little  hysterical,  feeling  as  though  heavy 
steam  rollers  had,  during  the  day,  passed  over  their  bodies, 
they  were  all  assembled  for  supper.  Sunday  supper  should 
be  surely  a  meal  very  hot  and  very  quickly  over:  instead  it 
is,  in  all  really  proper  English  families,  very  cold  and  quite 
interminable.  There  were,  to-night,  seated  round  the  enor- 
mous table  Mrs.  Trenchard,  Aunt  Betty,  Aunt  Aggie,  Kath- 
erine,  Millie  and  Henry.  George  Trenchard  and  Rachel 
Seddon  were  spending  the  evening  with  Timothy  Faunder: 


SUNDAY  271 

Philip  had  not  yet  returned  from  his  walk.  A  tremendous 
piece  of  cold  roast  beef  was  in  front  of  Mrs.  Trenchard; 
in  front  of  Henry  were  two  cold  chickens.  There  was  a 
salad  in  a  huge  glass  dish,  it  looked  very  cold  indeed. 
There  was  a  smaller  glass  dish  with  beetroot.  There 
was  a  large  apple-tart,  a  white  blancmange,  with  little  "dobs'  * 
of  raspberry  jam  round  the  side  of  the  dish.  There  was  a 
plate  of  stiff  and  unfriendly  celery — item  a  gorgonzola 
cheese,  item  a  family  of  little  woolly  biscuits,  clustered 
together  for  warmth,  item  a  large  "bought"  cake  that  had  not 
been  cut  yet  and  was  grimly  determined  that  it  never  should 
be,  item  what  was  known  as  "Toasted  Water"  (a  grim  family 
mixture  of  no  colour  and  a  faded,  melancholy  taste)  in  a  vast 
jug,  item,  silver,  white  table-cloth,  napkin-rings  quite  without 
end.  Everything  seemed  to  shiver  as  they  sat  down. 

Aunt  Aggie,  as  she  saw  the  blancmange  shaking  its  sides 
at  her,  thought  that  she  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  gone 
straight  upstairs  instead  of  coming  in  to  supper.  She  knew 
that  her  tooth  would  begin  again  as  soon  as  she  saw  this 
food.  She  had  had  a  wretched  day.  Katherine,  before  lunch- 
eon, had  been  utterly  unsympathetic,  Henry  at  tea-time  had 
laughed  at  her.  ...  At  any  rate,  in  a  minute,  there  would 
be  soup.  On  Sunday  evening,  in  order  to  give  the  servants 
freedom,  they  waited  upon  themselves,  but  soup  was  the 
one  concession  to  comfort.  Aunt  Aggie  thought  she  would 
have  her  soup  and  then  go  up  quietly  to  bed.  One  eye  was 
upon  the  door,  looking  for  Rocket.  Her  tooth  seemed  to 
promise  her:  "If  you  give  me  soup  I  won't  ache." 

"(Beef,  Aggie — or  chicken,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard.  "No 
soup  to-night,  I'm  afraid.  They've  all  got  leave  to-night, 
even  Rocket  and  Rebekah.  There's  a  meeting  at  the  Chapel 
that  seemed  important  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  beef  or  chicken, 
Aggie?" 

Aunt  Aggie,  pulling  all  her  self-control  together,  said: 
"Beef,  please."  Her  tooth,  savage  at  so  direct  an  insult, 
leapt  upon  her. 


272  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Aunt  Betty,  in  her  pleasant  voice,  began  a  story.  "I  must 
say  I  call  it  strange.  In  the  'Church  Times'  for  this  week 
there's  a  letter  about  'Church-Kneelers'  by  'A  Vicar' — com- 
plaining, you  know  .  .  .  Well — 

"Beef  or  chicken,  Millie?"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

"Chicken,  please,"  said  Millie.     "Shall  I  cut  the  bread  ?" 

"White,  please,"  said  Henry. 

<rWell—  '  went  on  Aunt  Betty.  "As  I  was  saying,  on 
'Church-Kneelers'  signed  by  'A  Vicar'.  Well,  it's  a  very  curi- 
ous thing,  but  you  remember,  Harriet,  that  nice  Mr.  Red- 
path—" 

"One  moment,  Betty,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

"Not  so  much  as  that,  Harry.  Simply  the  leg.  Thank 
you,  dear.  Simply  the  leg.  That  nice  Mr.  Redpath — with 
the  nice  wife  and  so  many  dear  little  children — he  was  curate 
to  Mr.  Williams  of  St.  Clemens  for  years.  Harriet,  you'll 
remember — one  year  all  the  children  had  scarlet  fever  to- 
gether, and  two  of  the  poor  little  things  died,  although  I 
couldn't  help  thinking  that  really  it  was  rather  a  mercy — " 

"Mustard,  please,"  said  Henry. 

"More  beef,  Aggie  ?"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Aggie,  snapping  her  teeth  upon  a 
piece  of  bread.  She  was  thinking:  "How  selfish  they  s !1 
are!  They  can't  see  how  I'm  suffering !" 

"Well,  that  Mr.  Redpath — You  must  remember  him,  Har- 
riet, because  he  had  a  red  moustache  and  a  rather  fine  white 
forehead — when  he  left  Mr.  Williams  got  a  living  some- 
where in  Yorkshire,  near  York,  I  think,  or  was  it  Scarbor- 
ough? Scarborough,  because  I  remember  when  I  wrote  to 
congratulate  him  he  answered  me  in  such  a  nice  letter,  and 
said  that  it  would  be  just  the  place  for  the  children.  You 
remember,  Katherine,  I  showed  it  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Katherine. 

Henry,  hearing  her  voice,  looked  across  at  her  and  then 
dropped  his  eyes  upon  his  plate. 

She  seemed  herself  again.     Had  her  letter  made  her 


SUNDAY  273 

happy  ?  With  a  sudden  start  he  realised  that  Millie  also  was 
watching  her.  .  . 

"Well,  it  must  have  been  about  1900  that  Mr.  Redpath 
went  to  Scarborough.  I  remember  it  was  the  year  before  that 
dreadful  wet  school  treat  here,  when  we  didn't  know  where 
to  put  all  the  children.  I  know  the  year  after  he  went 
there  poor  Mrs.  Redpath  died  and  left  him  with  all  those 
little  children — " 

Just  at  that  moment  Philip  came  in.  He  came  with 
the  spray  of  the  sea  still  wet  upon  his  cheeks,  his  hair  shining 
with  it.  His  colour  flaming,  his  eyes  on  fire.  He  had  been, 
in  the  wind  and  darkness,  down  the  Rafiel  Road  to  the  point 
above  Tredden  Cove  where  the  sea  broke  inland.  Here,  deaf- 
ened by  the  wind,  blinded  by  the  night,  the  sea-mist,  now 
lashing  his  face,  now  stroking  it  softly  with  gentle  fingers, 
he  had  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  world  and  heard  the  waters 
that  are  beyond  the  world  exult  in  their  freedom  and  scorn 
for  men.  He,  too,  standing  there,  had  had  scorn  for  him- 
self. He  had  seen  Katherine's  eyes  as  she  turned  from  him 
in  the  garden,  he  had  seen  his  own  wretched  impatience  and 
temper  and  selfishness.  "Ey  heaven,"  he  thought,  as  he 
strode  back,  "I'll  never  be  so  contemptible  again.  I'll  make 
them  all  trust  me  and  like  me.  As  for  Katherine  .  .  ."  and 
so  he  burst  in  upon  them,  without  even  brushing  his  hair 
first.  Also,  the  only  vacant  chair  was  next  to  Aunt  Aggie.  . .  . 

Aunt  Betty,  who  thought  that  Philip's  entry  had  been  a 
little  violent  and  abrupt,  felt  that  she  had  better  cover  it  with 
the  continuation  of  her  story. 

"And  so  the  next  year  Mr.  Redpath  married  again — quite 
a  young  woman.  I  never  saw  her,  but  Nelly  Hickling  knew 
her  quite  well.  She  always  said  that  she  reminded  her  of 
Clara  Foster.  •  You  know,  Harriet,  the  younger  one  with 
the  dark  hair  and  pretty  eyes." 

But  Philip  had  looked  across  at  Katherine,  her  eyes  had 
met  his,  and  very  faintly,  as  it  were  secretly,  she  smiled: 
the  whirl  of  that  encounter  had  hidden  Aunt  Betty's  voice 


274  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

from  him.    He  did  not  know  that  he  was  interrupting  her. 

"It  was  a  good  walk,  and  it's  raining  like  anything.  The 
sea  was  coming  in  over  the  Cove  like  thunder." 

No  one  answered  him,  and  he  realised  suddenly  that  all 
the  food  was  cold.  No  matter :  he  was  used  to  Sunday  sup- 
per by  this  time,  and  he  was  of  a  ferocious  hunger.  "Lots 
of  beef,  please,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

Aunt  Aggie  shuddered.  Her  tooth  was  in  her  eye  and 
her  toes  at  the  same  moment;  Annie  had  forgotten  to  call 
her,  there  had  been  no  eggs  for  breakfast,  Katherine  at 
luncheon  had  been  unsympathetic,  at  tea,  before  strangers 
(or  nearly  strangers),  Henry  had  laughed  at  her,  at  supper 
there  had  been  no  soup,  JBetty,  who  in  the  morning  had 
been  idiotic  enough  to  think  Mr.  Smart's  sermon  a  good 
one,  in  the  evening  had  been  idiotic  enough  to  commence  one 
of  her  interminable  stories,  the  day  had  as  usual  been  dreary 
and  heavy  and  slow,  and  now  that  terrible  young  man,  whom 
she  had  always  hated,  must  come  in,  late  and  dripping, 
without  even  washing  his  hands,  makes  no  apologies,  de- 
mands food  as  though  he  were  a  butcher,  smiles  upon  every- 
one with  perfect  complacency,  is  not  apparently  in  the  least 
aware  of  other  people's  feelings — this  horrible  young  man, 
who  had  already  made  everyone  about  him  miserable  and 
cross  and  restless :  no,  deeply  though  Aunt  Aggie  had  always 
disliked  Philip,  she  had  never  really  hated  him  until  this 
evening. 

Although  he  was  sitting  next  to  her,  he  could  not  possibly 
have  been  more  unconscious  of  her.  .  .  . 

"You  are  interrupting  my  sister,"  she  said. 

He  started  and  flushed.  "Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he 
stammered. 

"No,  please,  it's  nothing,"  said  Aunt  Betty. 

"You  were  saying  something  about  Mr.  Williams,  Betty 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

"No,  please,  its  nothing,"  said  Aunt  Betty. 

There  was  silence  after  that.     Philip  waited,  and  then, 


SUNDAY  275 

feeling  that  something  must  be  done,  said:  "Well,  Henry, 
I  wish  you'd  been  out  with  me.  You'd  have  loved  it.  Why 
didn't  you  come  ?" 

"I'm  sure  he  was  better  at  church,"  said  Aunt  Aggie.  Her 
tooth  said  to  her :  "Go  for  him !  Go  for  him !  Go  for  him !" 

Philip  realised  then  her  hostility.  His  face  hardened. 
What  a  tiresome  old  woman  she  was,  always  cross  and  rest- 
less and  wanting  attention !  He  kept  silent.  That  annoyed 
her:  he  seemed  so  big  and  overbearing  when  he  sat  so  close 
to  her. 

"And  I  don't  know,"  she  went  on,  "whether  you  are  really 
the  best  companion  for  Henry." 

Everyone  looked  up  then  at  the  bitterness  in  Aunt  Aggie's 
voice;  no  one  heard  Mrs.  Trenchard  say: 

"Do  have  some  tart,  Henry." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Philip  sharply.  His  proximity 
to  her  made  in  some  way  the  anger  between  them  absurd: 
they  were  so  close  that  they  could  not  look  at  one  another. 

"Oh,  nothing  .  .  .  nothing.  .  .  ."    She  closed  her  lips. 

"Please  .  .  ."  Philip  insisted.  "Why  am  I  a  bad  com- 
panion for  Henry?" 

"Because  you  make  him  drink  .  .  .  disgusting!"  she 
brought  out  furiously :  when  she  had  spoken  her  eyes  went  to 
Katherine's  face — then,  as  she  saw  Katherine's  eyes  fixed  on 
Philip's,  her  face  hardened.  "Yes.  You  know  it's  true," 
she  repeated. 

Henry  broke  in.  "What  do  you  say,  Aunt  Aggie?  What 
do  you  mean  ?  Drink — I — what  ?" 

"You  know  that  it's  true,  Henry.  That  night  that  you 
dined  with  Philip  in  London — You  came  back — disgraceful. 
Philip  had  to  carry  you.  You  fell  on  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
He  had  to  lift  you  up  and  carry  you  into  your  room,  I 
watched  it  all.  Well — I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything.  I'm 
sorry,  Harriet,  if  I — perhaps  not  quite  the  right  time— but 
I— I—" 

Her  voice  sank  to  muttering;  her  hands  shook  like  leaves 


276  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

on  the  tablecloth  and  her  tooth  was  saying:  "Go  for  him! 
Go  for  him!  Go  for  him!" 

And  for  Philip  it  was  as  though,  after  all  these  weeks 
of  waiting,  not  only  the  family  but  the  whole  place  had  at 
last  broken  into  its  definite  challenge. 

Beyond  the  room  he  could  feel  the  garden,  the  lawn,  the 
oak,  the  sea-road,  the  moor,  even  Rafiel  itself,  with  its  little 
square  window-pane  harbour,  crowding  up  to  the  window, 
listening,  crying  to  him :  "You've  got  to  be  broken !  You've 
got  to  go  or  be  broken !  .  .  ."  The  definite  moment  had  come 
at  last. 

His  eyes  never  left  Katherine's  face  as  he  answered : 

"It's  perfectly  true.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but 
we  had  been  having  supper  quite  soberly  together,  and  then 
Henry  was  suddenly  drunk.  I  swear  he'd  had  simply  noth- 
ing to  drink.  He  was  quite  suddenly  drunk,  all  in  a  mo- 
ment. I  was  never  more  surprised  in  my  life.  I  suppose 
I  should  have  prevented  it,  but  I  swear  to  you  it  would 
have  surprised  anyone — really,  you  would  have  been  sur- 
prised, Mrs.  Trenchard." 

Henry,  whose  face  was  first  flaming,  then  white,  said, 
sulkily:  "It  wasn't  Philip's  fault.  ...  I  wasn't  used  to  it. 
Anyway,  I  don't  see  why  there  need  be  such  a  fuss  about  it. 
What  Aunt  Aggie  wants  to  drag  it  in  now  for  just  when 
everyone's  tired  after  Sunday.  It  isn't  as  though  I  were 
always  drunk — just  once — everyone's  drunk  sometime." 

"I've  never  said  anything,"  Aunt  Aggie  began. 

"No,  that's  just  it,"  Philip  broke  in,  suddenly  flashing 
round  upon  her.  "That's  just  it.  You've  never  said  any- 
thing until  now.  Why  haven't  you?  Why,  all  this  time, 
have  you  kept  it,  hugging  it  to  yourself?  .  .  .  That's  what 
you've  all  been  doing.  You  never  tell  me  anything.  You 
never  treat  me  really  frankly,  but  if  you've  got  something 
you  think  will  do  damage  you  keep  it  carefully  until  the  best 
moment  for  letting  it  go  off.  You're  all  as  secret  with  me 
as  though  I  were  a  criminal.  You  ask  me  down  here,  and 


SUNDAY  277 

then  keep  ine  out  of  everything.  I  know  you  dislike  me 
and  think  I  oughtn't  to  marry  Katherine — but  why  can't  you 
say  so  instead  of  keeping  so  quiet  ?  You  think  I  shouldn't 
have  Katherine — but  you  can't  stop  it,  and  you  know  you 
can't.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry."  He  was  conscious  of  the  silence 
and  many  pairs  of  eyes  and  of  much  quivering  cold  food 
and  the  ticking  of  a  large  grandfather's  clock  saying:  'You 
are  rude.  You  are  rude — You  shoiddnt — do  it — You 
shouldn't — do  it.' 

But  he  was  also  conscious  of  a  quivering  life  that  ran,  like 
quicksilver,  through  the  world  outside,  through  all  the 
streams,  woods,  paths,  into  the  very  heart  of  the  sea.  His 
eyes  were  on  Mrs.  Trenchard's  face. 

"I  apologise  if  I've  been  rude,  but  to-day — a  day  like  this 
— awful — "  He  broke  off  abruptly,  and  moved  as  though  he 
would  get  up.  It  was  then  that  the  Dreadful  Thing  oc- 
curred. 

He  pushed  his  chair,  and  it  knocked  against  Aunt  Aggie's, 
jolting  her.  She,  conscious  that  she  was  responsible  for  an 
abominable  scene,  conscious  that  she  had  lost  all  that  fine 
dignity  and  self-command  in  which,  through  her  lifetime,  she 
had  seen  herself  arrayed,  conscious  of  her  tooth,  of  a  horrible 
Sunday,  of  many  Sundays  in  front  of  her  equally  horrible 
(conscious,  above  all,  of  some  doubt  as  to  whether  she  were 
a  fine  figure,  whether  the  world  would  be  very  different  with- 
out her,  conscious  of  the  menace  of  her  own  cherished  per- 
sonal allusion),  driven  forward,  moreover,  by  the  individual 
experiences  that  Mrs.  Trenchard,  Millie,  Henry,  Katherine 
had  had  that  day  (because  all  their  experiences  were  now  in 
the  room,  crowding  and  pressing  against  their  victims),  see- 
ing simply  Philip,  an  abominable  intrusion  into  what  had 
formerly  been  a  peaceful  and  honourable  life,  Philip,  now  and 
always  her  enemy  ...  at  the  impact  of  his  chair  against 
hers,  her  tooth  said  "Go !" 

She  raised  her  thin  hand  and  slapped  him.  Her  two  rings 
cut  his  cheek. 


278  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

When  the  House  was  finally  quiet  and  dark  again,  Rebekah 
alone  was  left.  Stiff,  solemn,  slow,  she  searched  the  rooms, 
tried  the  doors,  fastened  the  windows,  marched  with  her 
candle  up  the  back  stairs  into  the  heart  of  the  house. 

It  had  been  a  dull,  uneventful  Sunday.  Nothing  had 
occurred. 


CHAPTEE  VII 

EOCHE    ST.    MABY    MOOE 

TEKEOE  is  a  tall  word ;  it  should  not,  perhaps,  be  used, 
in  this  trivial  history,  in  connection  with  the  feelings 
and  motives  of  so  youthfully  comfortable  a  character  as 
Philip — nevertheless  very  nearly  akin  to  terror  itself  was 
Philip's  emotion  on  discovering  the  results  of  his  disgraceful 
encounter  with  Aunt  Aggie  .  .  .  because  there  were  no  re- 

<_?o 

suits. 

As  he  had  watched  Aunt  Aggie  trembling,  silent,  emo- 
tional, retreat  (after  striking  Philip  she  had  risen  and,  with- 
out a  word,  left  the  room),  he  had  thought  that  the  moment 
for  all  his  cards  to  be  placed  dramatically  upon  the  Tren- 
chard  table  had  at  last  come.  Perhaps  they  would  tell  him 
that  he  must  go ;  they  would  openly  urge  Katherine  to  aban- 
don him,  and  then,  faced,  with  force  and  violence,  by  the 
two  alternatives,  he  was  assured,  absolutely  assured,  of  her 
loyalty  to  himself.  He  saw  her,  protesting  that  she  would 
love  them  all,  reminded  that  (Philip  being  proved  an 
abomination)  she  must  now  choose,  finally  going  out  into 
the  world  with  Philip. 

He  went  to  his  room  that  Sunday  evening  triumphant.  No 
more  Trenchard  secrets  and  mysteries — thanks  to  that  hor- 
rible old  woman,  the  way  was  clear.  He  came  down  the 
next  morning  to  breakfast  expecting  to  be  treated  with  chilly 
politeness,  to  be  asked  to  interview  George  Trenchard  in  his 
study,  to  hear  Trenchard  say:  "Well,  my  dear  boy — I'm 
very  sorry  of  course — but  you  must  see  with  me  that  it's 
better  to  break  off  .  .  ."  and  then  his  reply. 

279 


280  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"That,  sir,  must  remain  with  Katherine.  I  am  bound  to 
her.  .  .  ."  No,  he  had  no  fear  of  the  result.  As  he  canie 
down  the  stairs  on  that  Monday  morning,  a  fine  hot  spring 
day,  with  the  mist  of  the  spring  heat  hazy  above  the  shining 
grass,  his  eyes  were  lighter,  his  spirits  higher  than  they  had 
been  since  his  first  coming  to  Garth.  He  entered  the  dining- 
room,  and  thought  that  he  had  dreamt  yesterday's  incidents. 

Millie  cried— "Hullo,  Phil !    Late  as  usual." 

George  Trenchard  said:  "Philip,  what  do  you  say  to  a 
drive  over  to  Trezent  ?  It's  a  good  day  and  I've  some  busi- 
ness there." 

Aunt  Aggie  gave  him  her  withered  hand  to  shake  with 
exactly  the  proud,  peevish  air  that  she  always  used  to  him. 
There  was  a  scratch  on  his  face  where  her  rings  had  cut 
him;  he  looked  at  her  rings  .  .  .  yes,  he  was  surely  dream- 
ing. Then  there  crept  to  him  the  conviction  that  the  plot — 
the  family  plot — seen  before  vaguely,  mysteriously  and  un- 
certainly— was  now  developing  before  his  eyes  as  something 
far  deeper,  far  more  soundless,  far  more  determined  than  he 
had  ever  conceived.  Mrs.  Trenchard,  smiling  there  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  knew  what  she  was  about.  That  outburst 
of  Aunt  Aggie's  last  night  had  been  a  slip — They  would  make 
no  more. 

His  little  quarrel  with  Katherine  had  needed  no  words  to 
mark  its  conclusion.  He  loved  her,  he  felt,  just  twice  as 
deeply  as  he  had  loved  her  before  ...  he  was  not  sure, 
though,  that  he  was  not  now  a  little — a  very  little — afraid 
of  her.  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  the  week,  waking,  very  early  on  the 
most  wonderful  of  all  spring  mornings,  his  inspiration  came 
to  him. 

He  got  up,  and  about  half-past  seven  was  knocking  on 
Katherine's  door.  She  spoke  to  him  from  within  the  room. 

"Katie!" 

"Yes!" 


KOCHE  ST.  MAKY  MOOR  281 

He  whispered  to  her  in  the  half-lit  house,  across  whose 
floors  the  light,  carrying  the  scent  of  the  garden-flowers,  shook 
and  trembled ;  he  felt  a  conspirator. 

"Look  here!  You've  got  to  dress  at  once  and  come  off 
with  me  somewhere." 

"Gooff!" 

"Yes,  for  the  day !  I've  thought  it  all  out.  We  can  take 
the  pony-cart  and  just  catch  the  nine  o'clock  at  Rasselas, 
That'll  get  us  to  Clinton  by  ten.  We'll  be  down  in  Roche 
Cove  by  eleven — spend  the  day  there,  catch  the  eight-thirty 
back  and  be  in  the  house  again  by  half -past  ten  to-night." 

There  was  a  pause,  filled  with  the  delighted  twittering  of  a 
company  of  sparrows  beyond  the  open  passage-window. 

At  last  her  voice : 

"Yes.  rilcome." 

"Good.  .  .  .  Hurry!  .  .  .  I'll  tell  them  downstairs." 

When  the  family  assembled  for  breakfast  and  he  told  them, 
his  eyes  challenged  Mrs.  Trenchard's. 

"Now,  look  here,"  his  eyes  said,  "I'm  the  dreadful  young 
man  who  is  teaching  your  boy  Henry  to  drink,  who's  ruining 
your  domestic  peace — surely  you're  not,  without  protest,  go- 
ing to  allow  me  a  whole  day  with  Katherine !" 

And  her  eyes  answered  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid.  .  .  .  You'll  come  back.  You're  a 
weak  young  man." 

In  the  train  he  considered,  with  a  beating  heart,  his  proj- 
ect. The  day  encouraged  adventure,  boldness,  romance;  he 
was  still  young  enough  to  believe  in  the  intangible  illusion 
of  a  Deity  Who  hangs  His  signs  and  colours  upon  the  sky 
to  signify  His  approval  of  one  bold  mortal's  projects,  and 
no  ironic  sense  of  contrast  attacked,  as  yet,  his  belief.  If 
the  Trenchards  refused  to  make  the  incident  of  Sunday  night 
a  crisis,  he  would,  himself,  force  them  to  recognise  it.  He 
had  been  passive  long  enough  ...  he  did  not  know  that, 
all  his  life,  he  had  never  been  anything  else. 

In  the  train  they  talked  to  oue  another  very  little.     He 


282  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

watched  her  and  was  bewildered,  as  are  all  lovers,  by  her 
proximity  and  her  remoteness.  The  very  love  that  brought 
her  so  close  to  him  made  her  the  more  remote  because  it 
clothed  her  in  strange  mystery. 

She  was  further  from  him  than  Anna  had  ever  been,  be- 
cause he  loved  her  more  deeply  .  .  .  and  at  the  thought  of 
Anna — so  constant  now  and  so  sinister — he  had  a  sudden 
fear  of  the  success  of  his  project.  .  .  . 

Clinton  St.  Mary  is  a  village,  with  one  ugly  street,  on  the 
very  edge  of  Roche  St.  Mary  Moor.  It  has  visitors  from 
the  outside  world  because,  in  a  hollow  in  the  moor,  lie  the 
remains  of  St.  Arthe  Church,  one  of  the  earliest  Christian 
buildings  in  Great  Britain,  ^buried  until  lately  in  the  sand, 
but  recently  excavated  through  the  kind  generosity  of  Sir 
John  Porthcullis,  Bart.,  of  Borhaze,  and  shown  to  visitors, 
6d.  a  head — Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons  free.'  Tour- 
ists therefore  continually  patronise  'The  Hearty  Cow'  in  Clin- 
ton, where  there  is  every  day  a  cold  luncheon — ham,  chicken, 
beef,  tart,  junket,  cheese — for  half-a-crown  a-head.  Kath- 
erine  also  had  relations  here,  the  Vicar,  the  Rev.  James  Tren- 
chard,  being  a  cousin  'and  a  dear  old  man'.  However,  to-day 
the  world  should  be  for  themselves  alone.  In  the  village  they 
bought  ginger-beer,  ham-sandwiches,  saffron  buns,  chocolata 
They  set  off  across  the  Moor. 

When  they  had  walked  a  very  little  way  they  were  sud- 
denly engulfed.  Behind  them  the  road,  the  trees,  the  village 
were  wrapped  in  blue  haze:  to  the  right,  very  faintly  the 
yellow  sand-hills  hovered.  In  the  sandy  ground  at  their  feet 
little  pools  that  caught  blue  fragments  of  sky  shone  like 
squares  of  marble :  out  of  the  tufts  of  coarse  grass  larks  rose, 
circling,  like  sudden  sprays  of  some  flashing  into  the  air 
as  a  fountain  flashes;  no  mortal  being  was  visible  in  this 
world. 

They  walked  for  two  hours  and  exchanged  scarcely  a  word. 
Philip  felt  as  though  he  had  never  had  Katherine  alone  with 
him  before  since  the  day  of  their  engagement — always  there 


KOCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  283 

had  been  people  between  them,  and,  if  not  people,  then  his 
own  silly  fancies  and  imaginations.  As  he  looked  his  love 
was  now  neither  reasoning  nor  hesitating.  "I  am  stronger 
than  you  all,"  he  could  shout  to  the  ironical  heavens,  for 
the  first  time  in  all  his  days.  Then  she  spoke  to  him,  and 
her  voice  reminded  him  of  his  desperate  plans.  .  .  .  His 
confidence  left  him.  It  was  his  great  misfortune  that  he 
never  believed  in  himself. 

Very  little,  this  morning,  was  Katherine  troubled  about 
dreams  or  fancies.  She  was  happy,  as  she  had  always  been 
happy,  with  absolute  simplicity,  her  trust  in  the  ultimate  per- 
fection of  the  world  being  -?o  strong  in  her  that  a  fine  day,  her 
closeness  to  Philip,  her  own  bodily  health  and  fitness  were 
enough  to  sweep  all  morbidities  far  away.  She  had  not  been 
happy  lately — some  new  force  had  been  stirring  in  her  that 
was  strange  to  her  and  unreal,  like  a  bad  dream. 

But  now  her  unhappiness  of  the  last  weeks  was  as  faint 
as  the  hazy  mist,  as  shadowy  as  the  thin  curtain  of  sea  that 
now  spread  before  them,  hung  like  gauze  between  two  humped 
and  staring  sand-hills.  They  rushed  down  the  deep  cup  of 
the  sand-valley  and  up,  through  the  thin  wiry  grass,  to 
the  top,  then  down  again,  then  up  once  more  to  be  perched 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  path  that  twisted  down  to  their 
Cove.  The  sea-breeze,  warm  and  soft,  invited  them.  .  .  . 
Down  they  went. 

The  Cove  was  hidden  by  black  rocks,  piled  together,  seem- 
ing, through  the  mist,  to  be  animals  herded  together  to 
guard  its  sanctity.  Under  the  rocks  the  Cove  lay,  curved  like 
a  small  golden  saucer,  the  sea  forming  here  a  thin  glassy 
lake,  protected  by  a  further  range  of  rocks  that  extended,  as 
though  placed  there  by  human  agency,  across  the  mouth  of 
the  tiny  circle.  The  water  within  the  rocks  was  utterly  clear, 
the  seaweed,  red-gold  and  green,  covering  the  inside  of  the 
cup:  when  the  waves  broke  beyond  the  barrier  they  were 
echoed  here  by  a  faint  ripple  that  trembled,  in  green  shadows, 
like  a  happy  sigh  across  the  surface,  and,  with  this  ripple, 


284  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

came  the  echo  of  the  dull  boom  that  the  surging  tide  was 
making  in  the  distant  caves:  this  echo  was  a  giant's  chuckle, 
sinister,  malevolent,  but  filtered.  When  the  tide  was  coming 
in,  the  ripples,  running  in  faint  lines  from  side  to  side,  cov- 
ered the  shining  surface  of  the  rocks  and  stones,  with  layers 
of  water,  thin  and  fine  like  silk,  now  purple,  now  golden, 
now  white  and  grey. 

The  silk  stretched  over  the  rocks,  drew  itself  taut,  then 
spilt  itself  suddenly,  with  a  delighted  ecstasy,  in  cascades 
of  shining  water,  into  the  breast  of  the  retreating  tide.  As 
the  tide  went  out,  very  reluctantly  the  colour  withdrew  from 
the  rocks,  leaving  them,  at  last,  hard  and  dry  beneath  the 
sun  .  .  .  but  at  the  heart  of  the  smooth,  glassy  cup,  on  these 
warm  spring  days,  there  was  a  great  peace  and  content :  birds, 
sea-gulls,  sparrows,  thrushes,  came  to  the  edge  of  the  golden 
sand,  and  with  trembling,  twittering  happiness  listened  to  the 
hollow  booming  in  the  distant  caves. 

Lying  there,  on  the  little  beach,  upon  such  a  spring  day  as 
this,  man  might  be  assured  that  the  world  had  been  made  only 
for  his  especial  comfort  and  safety.  The  intense  blue  of  the 
sky,  the  green  wall  of  hill  behind  him,  these  things  could  not 
change:  for  an  hour  of  his  journey,  life,  gay  rather  than 
solemn,  humorous  rather  than  ironic,  satisfying  and  complete, 
would  seem  to  be  revealed  to  him.  He  would  wonder  that  ho 
had  ever  doubted  it.  ... 

Katherine  and  Philip  lay,  for  a  long  time,  saying  very 
little,  listening  to  the  gentle  hiss  of  the  water,  watching  the 
line,  beyond  the  rocks,  where  the  sea  was  suddenly  deep  blue, 
feeling  the  sun  upon  their  faces,  and  the  little  breeze  that, 
once  and  again,  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  merriment  ruffled 
the  faces  of  the  golden  pools  with  a  flurry  of  grey  splashes 
and  shadows.  They  ate  their  sandwiches  and  saffron  buns 
and  drank  their  ginger-beer,  which  resembled  hot-soap-and- 
water:  Katherine  waited.  She  knew  that  Philip  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  her,  that  he  had  brought  her  here  with  some 
purpose,  and  she  seemed  to  know  also  that  that  gentle  sunny 


ROCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  285 

hour  of  the  late  morning  was  to  be  the  last  moment  in  some 
stage  in  her  life.  Her  first  meeting  with  him,  his  proposal 
to  her,  her  talk  afterwards  with  her  mother,  her  coming  to 
Garth  with  him,  his  confession  at  Rafiel,  their  first  quarrel 
yesterday — all  these  had  been  stages  in  her  growth.  She 
waited  now  with  a  struggle,  a  maturity  that  had  been  far 
from  her  experience  a  year  ago. 

He  began  at  last,  holding  her  hand  covered  by  both  of  his, 
searching  her  eyes  with  his,  very  grave;  she  saw  with  a 
little  loving  smile  to  herself  that  he  intended  to  be  of  an 
immense  seriousness,  that  his  sense  of  humour  was  very 
far  away.  He  began  as  though  he  were  carrying  through 
the  most  tremendous  business  of  his  life — and  a  sparrow, 
perched  on  the  water's  edge,  seemed  to  watch  his  gravity  with 
a  twitter  of  superior  amusement. 

"Do  you  mind  my  talking  now  a  little  ?  There's  something 
I've  got  to  say." 

"It's  a  beautiful  place  for  talking.  There's  no  Aunt  Aggie 
.  .  .  only  one  sparrow  to  overhear  us." 

"But  it's  really  important — terribly  important.  It's  simply 
this — that  last  night  was  a  crisis.  I'm  never  going  back  to 
Garth  again." 

Katherine  laughed,  but  her  eyes  were  suddenly  fright- 
ened. 

"My  dear  Phil  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not — I  mean — at  least  not  until  certain  things 
have  happened.  You're  not  going  back  either — " 

"I'm  not  going  back  ?" 

"No,  not  as  Miss  Katherine  Trenchard — one  day  as  Mrs. 
Philip  Mark,  perhaps." 

Katherine  drew  her  hand  from  his,  sat  up,  looked  out 
to  the  deep  blue  line  of  sea,  said,  at  last,  quietly : 

"Now  please,  Philip,  explain  the  joke.  The  afternoon's 
too  lovely  to  be  wasted." 

"There  is  no  joke.  I'm  perfectly  serious.  I  can't  stand 
it  any  longer.  /  cannot  stand  it — and  when  I  say  'it'  I  mean 


286  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

the  family,  their  treatment  of  me,  their  dislike  of  me,  their 
determination  to  swallow  me  up  in  their  feather-bed  and  make 
an  end  of  me — the  whole  long  engagement ;  you're  suffering. 
I'm  suffering.  You  were  wretched  yesterday — so  was  I. 
When  you're  wretched  I  could  burn  the  whole  family,  Garth 
and  Glebeshire  and  all  included  and  waste  no  pity  whatever." 

But  Katherine  only  laughed : 

"Do  you  know,  Phil,  you're  exaggerating  the  whole  thing 
in  the  most  ridiculous  manner.  It's  quite  natural — it's  be- 
cause you  don't  know  our  habits  and  manners.  Aunt  Aggie 
lost  her  temper  last  night — we  were  all  rather  worked  up — 
Sunday  can  be  awful.  She  won't  lose  her  temper  again.  We 
had  a  quarrel.  Well,  I  suppose  all  lovers  have  quarrels.  You 
think  they'll  all  be  terribly  shocked  because  you  let  Henry 
drink  too  much  that  night  in  London.  That  shows  that  you 
simply  don't  know  the  family  at  all,  because  if  you  did  you'd 
know  that  it's  never  shocked  at  anything  that  it  hasn't  seen 
with  its  own  eyes.  Aunt  Aggie  saw  Henry,  so  she  was 
shocked — but  for  the  others  ...  If  they  were  to  know — 
well,  what  you  told  me  at  Rafiel — then — perhaps — " 

"Then  ?"  Philip  cried  eagerly. 

"They  might  be— I  don't  know  what  they'd  do."  She 
turned  her  eyes  to  his  face  again.  "But  you're  so  impatient, 
Phil.  You  want  everything  to  happen  in  a  minute — You're 
discontented  because  they  all  have  their  own  lives,  which  you 
can't  share.  But  you're  so  strange.  I'm  the  person  whose 
life  you  ought  to  share,  and  yet  you  don't.  You've  hardly 
looked  at  all  this.  You've  taken  no  interest  at  all  in  the  fish- 
ermen or  the  villagers.  Garth  is  nothing  to  you — " 

"I  hate  Garth !"  he  broke  out  furiously.  "I—"  Then  he 
dropped  his  voice.  "That'll  all  come  later.  .  .  .  I'll  just  say 
this  about  myself.  It's  only  what  I've  always  told  you,  that 
I'm  simply  not  worthy  for  you  to  care  about  me.  You  may 
have  had  some  illusions  about  me  at  first.  You  can't  have 
any  now.  I'm  weak  and  backboneless,  always  wanting  things 
better  than  I  can  have  them,  ready  to  be  influenced  by  simply 


ROCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  287 

anyone  if  they're  nice  to  me,  hating  it  when  people  aren't  nice. 
I'm  no  good  at  all,  except  for  one  thing — my  love  for  you." 

He  bent  forward  and  drew  her  towards  him. 

"I  have  never  known  anything  like  it  before.  I  shall  never 
know  anything  like  it  again — and  just  because  I  do  know 
myself  so  well  I'm  going  to  hold  on  to  it  and  let  nothing  take 
it  from  me.  They,  all  of  them — are  doing  their  best  to  take  it 
from  me.  Your  mother  knows  me  much  better  than  you  do. 
.  .  .  She  despises  me  completely  and  she  knows  the  way  to 
influence  me." 

Katherine  would  have  spoken,  but  he  stopped  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  does.  Have  you  noticed  that  she  and  I  are 
never  alone  together,  that  we  never  have  talks  nor  walks  nor 
anything  ?  She  is  always  perfectly  kind,  but  she  knows,  and  I 
know  that  she  knows,  that  if  I  were  once  to  get  really  intimate 
with  her  I  might  overcome  my  fright  of  her,  that  it's  by  my 
imagination  of  her  that  she's  influencing  me.  And  she  is  ... 
she  is  ...  she  is."  His  hand  trembled  against  Katherine. 
"You  don't  know.  You  don't  see !  You  love  her  and  think 
that  she's  simply  your  mother.  But  you  don't  know.  .  .  . 
Already  she  can  get  me  to  do  anything  she  likes.  If  she  wants 
me  to  waste  every  day  doing  nothing,  thinking  nothing,  be- 
coming a  stupid  bore,  with  no  ambitions,  no  lips  of  his  own, 
no  energy — and  that's  what  she  does  want — she's  making  me 
exactly  that.  I  feel  her  when  she's  not  there — all  over  the 
house,  in  the  garden,  in  the  roads.  I  can't  escape  her.  In 
half  a  year's  time,  when  the  wedding  day  comes,  all  I  shall 
want  is  to  be  allowed  to  cut  the  flowers  for  the  dinner-table 
and  to  hold  your  mother's  wool  when  she's  winding  it." 

He  paused,  stood  suddenly  upon  his  feet:  "It's  like  my 
own  mother  over  again — only  Mrs.  Trenchard's  cleverer  .  .  . 
but  I  tell  you,  Katie,  you  shan't  marry  a  man  like  that.  If 
you  marry  me  down  there,  and  we're  to  spend  all  our  lives 
there,  a  year  after  marriage  you'll  despise  me,  hate  me  for  the 
thing  I've  become.  .  .  .  I've  thought  it  all  out  That  scene 


288  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

last  night  decided  me.  You  shan't  go  back — not  until  we're 
married." 

He  stood  proudly  facing  her,  his  whole  body  stirred  to  his 
decision.  But  even  then,  as  she  looked  at  him  she  saw  that 
his  upper  lip  trembled  a  little — his  upper  lip  had  always 
been  weak.  He  looked  down  at  her,  then  sat  very  close  to  her, 
leaning  towards  her  as  though  he  were  pleading  with  her. 

"I  know  that  ever  since  our  engagement  you've  been  think- 
ing that  I've  imagined  things.  Perhaps  I  have.  Perhaps 
that's  my  way,  and  always  has  been.  And  Russia  increased 
my  tendency.  JBut  if  that's  true  then  it  ought  to  be  taken 
into  account  just  as  much  as  though  I'd  got  a  game  leg  or  was 
blind  of  one  eye.  You  can't  just  dismiss  it  and  say :  'He's 
a  silly  ass — he  oughtn't  to  imagine  things'.  I  know  that  if  I 
were  sensible  I  should  just  hang  on  for  six  months  more, 
marry  you  and  then  take  you  right  off.  But  I  know  myself 
— by  that  time  I  shall  simply  do  exactly  what  your  mother 
tells  me — and  she'll  tell  me  to  dig  potatoes  in  the  garden." 

"You're  unjust  to  yourself,  Phil,"  looking  up  at  him. 
"You're  not  so  weak  .  .  .  and  soon  you'll  love  Garth.  You'll 
understand  the  family,  even  perhaps  mother.  It  must  come 
— it  must.  I  want  it  so." 

"It  will  never  come,"  he  answered  her  firmly.  "You 
can  make  up  your  mind  to  that  now  for  ever.  The  only  way 
we  can  live  altogether  like  a  happy  family  in  the  future  is  for 
me  to  become  a  chair  or  table  or  one  of  your  aunt's  green 
cushions.  That's  what  I  shall  become  if  I  don't  do  something 
now." 

She  waited  because  she  saw  that  he  had  more  to  say. 

"And  do  you  suppose  that  even  then  any  of  us  would  be 
happy?  See  already  how  everyone  is  changed!  Millie, 
Henry,  Aunt  Aggie,  you,  even  your  father.  Isn't  he  always 
wondering  now  what's  come  over  everyone?  There's  a  sur- 
prised look  in  his  eyes.  And  it's  I!.  ..I!.  ..I!  It's 
like  a  pebble  in  your  shoe  that  you  can't  find.  I'm  the  peb- 
ble, and  they'll  never  be  comfortable  so  long  as  I'm  here. 


KOCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  289 

They're  not  only  threatened  with  losing  you,  they're  threat- 
ened with  losing  their  confidence,  their  trust,  their  super- 
stitions." 

"I'm  one  of  them,"  Katherine  said.  "You  forget  that. 
We  may  be  slow  and  stupid  and  unimaginative,  as  you  say, 
but  we  are  fond  of  one  another.  You're  impatient,  Phil.  I 
tell  you  to  wait  .  .  .  wait !" 

"Wait !"  He  looked  out  to  sea,  where  the  bar  of  blue  was 
now  sown  with  white  dancing  feathers.  "I  can't  wait  .  .  . 
there's  something  else.  There's  Anna." 

Katherine  nodded  her  head  as  though  she  had  known  that 
this  would  come. 

"Ever  since  that  day  at  Rafiel  she's  been  between  us; 
you've  known  it  as  well  as  I.  It  hasn't  been  quite  as  I'd 
expected.  I  thought  perhaps  that  you'd  be  shocked.  You 
weren't  shocked.  I  thought  that  I'd  be  confused  myself.  I 
haven't  been  confused.  You've  wanted  to  know  about  her — 
anything  I  could  tell  you.  You've  simply  been  curious,  as 
you  might,  about  anyone  I'd  known  before  I  met  you — but 
the  business  has  been  this,  that  the  more  you've  asked  the 
more  I've  thought  about  her.  The  more  she's  come  back  to 
me.  It  hasn't  been  that  I've  wanted  her,  even  that  I've 
thought  tenderly  about  her,  only  that  your  curiosity  has  re- 
vived all  that  life  as  though  I  were  back  in  it  all  again.  I've 
remembered  so  much  that  I'd  forgotten." 

Katherine  took  his  hand  and  came  close  to  him.  "Yes. 
I  knew  that  it  was  like  that,"  she  said.  "I  knew  that  it  was 
foolish  of  me  to  ask  questions,  to  make  you  talk  about  her, 
and  I  couldn't  help  myself — I  knew  that  it  was  foolish,  and 
I  couldn't  help  myself.  And  the  strange  thing  is  that  I  don't 
suppose  I've  ever  wondered  about  anyone  whom  I  didn't 
know  in  my  life  before.  I've  never  been  able  to  imagine 
people  unless  I  had  pictures  or  something  to  help  me.  But 
now — I  seem  to  see  her  as  though  I'd  known  her  all  my  days. 
And  I'm  not  jealous — no,  truly,  truly,  I'm  not  jealous.  And 
yet  I  don't  like  her — I  grudge — I  grudge — " 


290  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

She  suddenly  hid  her  face  in  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  and  her 
hand  went  up  to  his  cheek. 

Philip,  holding  her  with  his  arm  as  though  he  were  pro- 
tecting her,  went  on:  "And  you've  felt  that  I  didn't  want 
you  to  ask  me  questions  about  her — and  you've  been  silent. 
I  knew  that  you  were  silent  because  you  were  afraid  of  my 
restlessness,  and  that  has  made  restraint  between  us.  You 
wouldn't  speak  and  I  wouldn't  speak,  and  we've  both  been 
thinking  of  Anna  until  we've  created  her  between  us.  It's  so 
like  her — so  like  her.  Why,"  he  went  on,  "you'll  think  this 
absurd  perhaps — but  I  don't  know — it's  not  so  absurd  when 
you've  lived  with  her.  I  wrote  and  told  her  about  us — about 
our  engagement.  I've  never  had  an  answer  from  her,  but  I 
can  fancy  her  saying  to  herself:  'It  would  be  amusing  to 
bring  him  back  to  me — not  that  I  want  him.  I  should  be 
bored  to  death  if  I  had  to  live  with  him  again — but  just  for 
the  humour  of  it.  He  was  always  so  weak.  He'll  come  if  I 
ask  him/ 

"I  can  imagine  her  saying  that,  and  then  I  can  imagine 
her  just  projecting  herself  over  here  into  the  middle  of  us — 
simply  for  the  fun  of  it.  I  can  see  her  laughing  to  herself  in 
the  way  she  used  to  when  she  saw  people  behaving  in  what 
she  thought  was  a  childish  fashion.  So  now  she'll  think  us  all 
childish,  and  she'll  simply  come  here,  her  laughing,  mocking 
spirit — and  do  her  best  to  break  us  all  up." 

"You're  afraid  of  her!"  Katherine  cried,  as  though  she 
were  challenging  him. 

"Yes.    I'm  afraid  of  her,"  he  acknowledged. 

"Well,  I'm  not,"  she  answered.  "She  can  do  her  utmost. 
She  can  laugh  as  much  as  she  pleases." 

"She  shall  be  given  no  chance,"  he  answered  eagerly. 
"See,  Katherine!  Listen!  .  .  .  All  that  matters  is  that  we 
should  be  married.  She  can't  touch  us  then — Garth  can't 
touch  us,  the  family  can't  touch  us.  I  suddenly  saw  it  as  an 
inspiration — that  you've  got  to  come  up  with  me  now — to 
London.  We'll  get  a  special  licence.  We'll  be  married  to- 


ROCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  291 

morrow.  If  we  catch  the  five-thirty  from  Truxe  we'll  be  up 
there  soon  after  midnight.  We  can  get  a  trap  in  Clinton  to 
drive  us  over.  It's  got  to  be.  It's  just  got  to  be.  There  can 
be  no  alternative." 

She  shook  her  head  smiling.  "What  a  baby  you  are,  Phil ! 
Just  because  Aunt  Aggie  lost  her  temper  last  night  we've  got 
to  be  married  in  half  an  hour.  And  what  about  our  promise 
to  father  of  a  year's  engagement  ?" 

"That's  all  right,"  he  answered  eagerly.  "If  your  father 
had  wanted  to  break  off  the  engagement  before  the  year's  up 
he'd  have  done  so,  you  can  be  sure." 

She  laughed.  "But  I  don't  want  to  be  married  all  in  a 
minute.  You  don't  know  how  women  care  about  trousseaux 
and  presents  and  bells  and — " 

"Ah!  Please,  Katie!  .  .  .  It's  most  awfully  serious! 
Please—" 

She  was  grave  then.  They  stood  up  together  on  the  little 
beach,  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"Phil.  I  do  understand  better  than  you  think.  But  do 
you  know  what  it  would  mean  if  we  were  to  run  away  now 
like  this?  My  mother  would  never  forgive  me.  It  would 
mean  that  I  was  throwing  off  everything — the  place,  mother, 
all  my  life.  ...  Of  course  I  would  throw  it  away  for  you 
if  that  were  the  only  course  to  take.  But  it  isn't  the  only 
course.  You  see  life  exaggerated,  Phil.  Everything  that 
happened  yesterday  has  irritated  you.  To-morrow — " 

"To-morrow  may  be  too  late,"  he  answered  her.  "At  least 
give  my  idea  half  an  hour,  I'll  go  off  now  for  a  walk  by  my- 
self. In  half  an  hour's  time  I'll  be  back.  DC  your  best 
for  me." 

She  looked  at  him,  bent  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"Yes,  go — Come  back  in  half  an  hour." 

She  watched  him  climb  the  rocks,  wind  up  the  path,  turn 
at  the  bend  and  look  back  to  her,  then  disappear.  She  sat 
down  on  the  beach,  rested  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  looked 
out  to  sea.  She  was  utterly  alone :  the  pool,  now  spun  gold, 


292  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

beneath  a  sun  that  was  slowly  sinking  to  bars  of  saffron, 
quivered  only  with  the  reaction  of  the  retreating  tide;  the 
rocks  were  black  and  sharp  against  the  evening  sky. 

Katherine,  as  she  sat  there,  had,  at  first,  a  desperate  wish 
for  the  help  of  some  older  person's  advice.  It  was  not  that 
she  could,  for  an  instant,  seriously  contemplate  this  mad  pro- 
posal of  Philip's — and  yet  he  had  imparted  to  her  some  of 
his  own  fear  and  distrust  of  the  possible  machinations  of 
heaven.  What  he  had  said  was  true — that  ever  since  he  had 
told  her  about  Anna  it  had  been  as  though  they  had  taken 
some  third  person  into  their  lives — taken  her  unwillingly, 
almost  unconsciously,  but  nevertheless  destructively.  Then 
also,  although  Katherine  had  denied  it,  she  knew  now  that 
what  he  had  said  about  the  family  was  true.  She  not  only 
could  not  hope  now  that  they  and  Philip  would  ever  live  hap- 
pily together — it  was  also  the  fact  that  they  had  changed. 
Her  mother  had  changed — her  Aunts,  her  father,  Millie, 
Henry — they  had  all  changed — changed  to  her  and  changed 
to  themselves. 

Katherine,  moreover,  now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
criticised  her  family — even  her  mother.  She  felt  as  though 
she  and  Philip  had  needed  help,  and  that  the  family,  instead 
of  giving  it,  had  made  difficulties  and  trouble.  Her  mother 
had,  deliberately,  made  trouble — had  been  hard  and  unkind 
to  Philip,  had  brought  him  to  Garth  that  he  might  seem  to 
Katherine  unsuited  there,  had  put  him  into  impossible  posi- 
tions and  then  laughed  at  him.  Her  mother  had  come  to  her 
and  asked  her  to  give  Philip  up ;  in  retrospect  that  scene  of 
yesterday  afternoon  seemed  a  deliberate  challenge — but  a 
challenge  offered  behind  Philip's  back. 

Now  her  whole  impulse  was  that  Philip  must  at  all  costs  be 
protected  and  defended,  and,  for  the  first  time,  this  after- 
noon, sitting  there  alone  with  the  world  all  hers,  she  realised 
how  her  feeling  for  him  had  changed.  When  she  had  first 
known  him  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  him  because  she  had 
thought  him  the  strongest,  most  adventurous,  most  fearless  of 


ROCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  293 

mortal  souls.  Now — she  knew  that  he  was  weak,  afraid  of 
himself,  unbalanced,  a  prey  to  moods,  impulses,  terrors — and 
with  that  knowledge  of  him  her  love  had  grown,  had  flung  its 
wide  arm  about  him,  had  caught  him  to  her  heart  with  a 
fierce  protection  that  the  attraction  for  his  strength  had  never 
given  her. 

With  her  new  knowledge  of  him  came  also  her  direct  an- 
tagonism with  that  other  woman.  She  knew  that  what  Philip 
had  said  was  true,  that  her  curiosity  had  increased  for  them 
both  the  live  actuality  of  that  figure.  Katherine  had  always 
been  afraid  of  cynical  people,  who  must,  always,  she  felt,  de- 
spise her  for  the  simplicity  of  her  beliefs,  the  confidence  of 
her  trust.  She  remembered  a  woman  who  had,  at  one  time, 
been  a  close  friend  of  Aunt  Aggie's,  a  sharp,  masculine 
woman  with  pincenez,  who,  when  Katherine  had  said  any- 
thing, had  looked  at  her  sharply  through  her  glasses,  laughed 
as  though  she  were  ringing  a  coin  to  see  whether  it  were  good 
metal,  and  said :  'Do  you  think  so  V 

Katherine  had  hated  her  and  been  always  helpless  before 
her,  clumsy,  awkward  and  tongue-tied.  Now  it  was  a  woman 
of  that  kind  whom  she  was  called  out  to  challenge.  Her 
thought  in  church  yesterday  was  with  her  now  more  strongly 
than  ever.  "How  she  would  despise  me  if  she  knew  me! 
.  .  ."  and  then,  "what  a  power  she  must  have  if  she  can  come 
back  like  this  into  Philip's  life." 

And  yet  not  such  a  power !  Always  before  him  was  that 
world  where  he  was  not :  his  fancy,  running  before  him,  cried 
to  him:  "Yes.  There!  There!  was  happiness,"  or  "In 
such  a  fashion  happiness  will  come  to  you" — as  though  the 
only  end  of  life  was  happiness,  the  security  of  the  ideal  mo- 
ment. Yes,  Katherine  knew  why  Anna  had  laughed  at 
Philip. 

Her  thoughts  turned  back  again  then  to  his  mad  idea  of 
their  escape  to  London,  and,  suddenly,  as  though  some  woman 
were  with  her  whom  she  had  never  seen  before,  some  voice 
within  her  cried:  "Ah!  I  wish  he'd  make  me  go!  simply 


294  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

take  me  prisoner,  force  me  by  brutal  strength,  leave  me  no 
will  nor  power."  Her  imagination,  excited,  almost  breath- 
less, began  to  play  round  this.  She  saw  his  return,  heard  him 
ask  her  whether  she  would  go  with  him,  heard  her  answer 
that  she  would  not,  heard  him  say:  "But  you  are  in,  my 
power  now.  I  have  arranged  everything.  Whether  you  like 
it  or  not  we  go.  .  .  ." 

She  would  protest,  but  in  her  surrender,  triumphant  at 
heart,  she  would  see  her  utter  defeat  of  that  other  woman, 
whose  baffled  ghost  might  whistle  across  the  dark  moor  back 
to  its  own  country  to  find  other  humours  for  its  decision. 

"Poor  Ghost,"  she  might  cry  after  it,  "you  did  not  know 
that  he  would  prove  so  strong!"  Nor  would  he.  .  .  .  Her 
dream  faded  like  the  trembling  colours  in  the  evening  sea. 

And  otherwise,  unless  that  were  so,  she  could  not  go.  She 
had  no  illusions  as  to  what  her  escape  with  him  would  mean. 
There  would  be  no  return  for  her  to  Garth — even  Glebeshire 
itself  would  cast  her  out.  As  she  thought  of  all  her  days,  of 
her  babyhood,  when  the  world  had  been  the  green  lawn  and 
the  old  oak,  of  her  girlhood,  when  Rafiel  and  Polchester  had 
been  the  farthest  bounds,  of  all  the  fair  days  and  the  wild 
days,  of  the  scents  and  the  sounds  and  the  cries  and  the 
laughter,  it  seemed  that  the  little  cove  itself  came  close  to  her, 
pressing  up  to  her,  touching  her  cheek,  whispering  to  her: 
"You  will  not  go !  ...  You  will  not  go !  ...  You  will  not 
go !"  No,  of  her  own  will  she  could  not  go.  The  golden  pool 
was  very  full,  swelling  with  a  lift  and  fall  that  caught  the 
light  of  the  sun  as  though  the  evening  itself  were  rocking  it. 
Against  the  far  band  of  rocks  the  tide  was  breaking  with  a 
white  flash  of  colour,  and  the  distant  caves  boomed  like 
drums.  But  the  peace  was  undisturbed ;  birds  slowly,  with  a 
dreamy  beat  of  wings,  vanished  into  a  sky  that  was  almost 
radiant  white  .  .  .  and  behind  her,  the  dark  rocks,  more 
than  ever  watching,  guarding  beasts  that  loved  her,  waited  for 
her  decision. 

Then  all  things  faded  before  her  vision  of  her  mother. 


ROCHE  ST.  MARY  MOOR  295 

That  so  familiar  figure  seemed  to  come  towards  ner  with  a 
freshness,  a  piquancy,  as  though  mother  and  daughter  had 
been  parted  for  years.  "We've  misunderstood  one  another," 
the  figure  seemed  to  say:  "there  shall  never  be  misunder- 
standing again."  There  seemed,  at  that  moment,  to  be  no 
one  else  in  Katherine's  world :  looking  back  she  could  see,  in 
all  her  past  life,  only  her  mother's  face,  could  hear  only  her 
mother's  voice. 

She  remembered  the  day  when  she  had  told  her  about  the 
engagement,  the  day  when  she  had  forgotten  about  the  Stores, 
yesterday  in  her  bedroom.  .  .  . 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  feeling  a  wild,  desperate 
despair — as  though  life  were  too  strong  for  her  and  her  will 
too  weak. 

She  felt  a  touch  on  her  shoulder,  and  saw  that  Philip  had 
returned,  his  face  in  the  dusk  was  pale  like  the  white  sky. 

"Well  ?"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling  a  dismal  little  smile.  "I  can't 
go.  ...  You  know  that  I  can't." 

(That  other  woman  in  her  whispered:  'Now  he  must 
compel  you.') 

Philip  looked  out  to  sea. 

"I  can't,"  she  repeated.    "I  can't  leave  it  all." 

('Ah !  make  me  go !'  that  other  whispered.) 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  looked  back  at  the  rocks. 

"You  care  for  all  this  more  than  for  me." 

"You  know  that  that  is  not  true.  I  care  for  you  more 
than  anyone  or  anything  in  the  world.  But  these  have  all 
been  fancies  of  yours,  Phil.  In  six  months  time — "  she  broke 
off. 

('Force  me,  compel  me  to  go  with  you/  the  other  woman 
whispered  to  him.  But  he  did  not  hear.) 

"Yes.    We'll  go  back,"  he  said. 

They  were  silent.  Suddenly  he  gripped  her  shoulder,  and 
they  both  turned  and  looked  behind  them. 


296  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"I  thought  I  heard  someone  laugh,"  he  whispered. 

She  rose,  then  before  they  moved  away,  put  her  arm  round 
him  with  a  close,  maternal  gesture  that  she  had  never  used 
to  him  before. 


CHAPTER   I 

KATHEEINE   ALONE 

T  T  happened  that  in  the  middle  of  July  there  was  to  be  a 
•*•  Trenchard-Faunder  wedding  in  London.  It  was  to  be  a 
quite  especial  Trenchard-Faunder  wedding  that  no  Trenchard 
or  Faunder  must  miss.  A  Miss  Dorothy  Faunder,  daughter 
of  Colonel  Faunder  of  Foxley  Park,  Wilts,  was  to  marry  her 
cousin  Humphrey  Trenchard,  second  son  of  Sir  Geoffrey 
Trenchard  of  Tredent  Hall,  Truxe,  in  Glebeshire,  and  22 
Bryanston  Square,  W.  .  .  . 

The  wedding  was  to  be  towards  the  end  of  the  season,  be- 
fore Goodwood  and  Cowes ;  and  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster, 
was  to  be  the  scene  of  the  Ceremony.  Of  course  the  George 
Trenchards  of  Garth  would  be  present — there  was  never  any 
question  of  that — but  at  the  same  time  it  was  an  incon- 
venient interference  with  normal  life.  Trenchards  and 
Faunders  saw,  as  a  rule,  little  of  London  in  the  season  un- 
less there  was  a  daughter  coming  out  or  a  wedding  or  a  Pre- 
sentation at  Court.  George  Trenchard  greatly  disliked  be- 
ing torn  from  Garth  during  July  and  August,  and  it  was  only 
an  exceptional  demand  that  could  uproot  him. 

This  demand  was  exceptional.  Of  course  they  must  all  be 
there. 

On  the  evening  before  the  departure  for  London  Katherine 
sat  alone  in  her  bedroom  looking  through  her  bright  window 
on  to  the  garden  beneath  her.  The  July  evening  was  close 
and  oppressive — the  garden  was  almost  black,  with  a  strange 
quivering  bar  of  pale  yellow  light  behind  the  trees.  The 
scents  came  up  to  the  open  window  heavily — there  was  no 

299 


300  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

breeze.  Now  and  then  a  dog  barked  as  though  it  were  chal- 
lenging someone.  Although  there  was  no  breeze,  the  trees 
sometimes  shivered  very  faintly. 

One  star  glittered  between  the  black  clouds. 

Katherine  sat  at  the  open  window  smelling  the  pinks  and 
the  roses,  her  room  dim  behind  her  with  a  pale  metallic  glow. 
She  felt  oppressed  by  the  evening,  and  at  the  same  time 
strangely  excited,  as  though  something  was  about  to  happen. 
But  beyond  this  she  was  conscious  of  a  curious  combative 
loneliness  that  should  have  been  a  miserable  thing,  but  was  in 
reality  something  challenging  and  almost  defiant.  Defiant 
of  what?  Defiant  of  whom?  She  thought  of  it  as  she  sat 
there. 

Her  thoughts  went  back  to  that  day  that  she  had  spent  with 
Philip  at  Roche  St.  Mary  Moor.  Her  loneliness  had  begun 
quite  definitely  from  that  day.  Only  a  fortnight  later  Philip 
had  departed.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  then.  But  even 
had  he  been  with  her  she  thought  that  he  would  not,  very 
greatly,  have  affected  her  loneliness.  He  might  even  have 
accentuated  it.  For  Philip  had  behaved  very  strangely  since 
that  afternoon  at  Roche  St.  Mary.  It  was,  Katherine  thought, 
as  though,  having  made  his  bolt  for  freedom  and  failed,  he 
simply  resigned  himself.  He  only  once  afterwards  alluded 
to  the  affair.  One  day  he  said  to  her  quite  suddenly :  "After 
all,  it's  worth  it — so  long  as  you're  there." 

"What's  worth  it  ?"  she  had  asked  him. 

"But  if  you  were  to  leave  me,"  he  went  on,  and  stopped 
and  looked  at  her. 

"What's  worth  it  ?"  she  had  repeated. 

"Being  swallowed  up,"  he  had  answered  her.  "Your 
mother  and  I  are  going  to  pay  calls  together  this  afternoon." 

He  had  during  these  last  weeks  been  wonderful  about  her 
mother ;  he  had  agreed  to  everything  that  she  proposed,  had 
run  errandc  for  her,  supported  her  opinions,  "been  quite  a  son 
to  her,"  Aunt  Betty,  happy  at  this  transformation,  had  de- 


KATHEKINE  ALONE  301 

clared — and  he  had  been  perfectly  miserable.  Katherine 
knew  that. 

And  his  misery  had  kept  them  apart.  Katherine  had 
never  loved  him  so  intensely  as  she  did  during  those  last 
days,  and  he  had  loved  her  with  a  kind  of  passionate,  almost 
desperate,  intensity.  But  their  love  had  never  brought  them 
together.  There  had  always  been  someone  between. 

It  was  as  good  as  though  he  had  said  to  her:  "We  have 
still  another  six  months  before  ^  ar  marriage.  You  have  told 
me  definitely  that  you  will  not  give  up  the  family.  Your 
mother  is  determined  not  to  surrender  a  bit  of  you  to  me, 
therefore  I  am  to  be  surrendered  to  your  mother.  I  am  will- 
ing that  this  should  be  so  because  I  love  you,  but  if  I  change, 
if  I  am  dull  and  lifeless  you  mustn't  be  surprised. 

"There's  the  earlier  life,  which  one  can't  forget  all  at  once, 
however  deeply  one  wants  to.  Meanwhile,  I  hate  your  mother 
and  your  mother  hates  me.  But  she'll  never  let  me  go  unless 
you  force  her  to.  She  knows  that  I  can't  break  away  so 
long  as  you're  here.  And  she  means  you  to  be  here  always. 
What  would  a  strong  man  do?  Forget  the  earlier  life,  I 
suppose.  So  would  I  if  I  had  you  all  to  myself.  But  I  have 
to  share  you — and  that  gives  the  earlier  life  a  chance." 

Although  he  had  never  opened  his  lips,  Katherine  heard 
him  saying  all  this  as  though  he  were  there  in  front  of  her, 
there  with  his  charm  and  his  hopeless  humours  about  him- 
self, his  weakness  that  she  had  once  thought  was  strength, 
and  for  which  now  she  only  loved  him  all  the  more. 

But  the  terrible  thing  about  those  last  weeks  had  been 
that,  although  she  knew  exactly  what  he  was  thinking,  they 
had  simply  avoided  all  open  and  direct  discussion.  She  had 
wished  for  it,  but  what  could  she  say  ?  Only  the  same  things 
again — that  it  would  be  all  right  when  they  were  married, 
that  he  would  love  the  family  then,  that  she  would  be  his 
then  and  not  the  family's.  .  .  .  Always  at  this  point  in  her 
argument  she  was  pulled  up  sharply,  because  that  was  a  lie. 
She  would  not  be  his  when  they  were  married.  She  knew 


302  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

now,  quite  definitely,  that  her  mother  was  utterly,  absolutely 
resolved  never  to  let  her  go. 

And  meanwhile  there  was  Anna.  .  .  . 

Katherine,  putting  Philip  aside  for  a  moment,  thought  of 
the  members  of  the  family  one  by  one.  They  were  all  sepa- 
rated from  her.  She  summoned  this  ghostly  truth  before 
her,  there  in  her  dim  room  with  the  hot  scented  air  surround- 
ing her,  quite  calmly  without  a  shudder  or  a  qualm.  Her 
mother  was  separated  from  her  because,  during  the  last  six 
months,  they  had  never,  with  one  exception,  spoken  the  truth 
to  one  another.  Aunt  Aggie  was  separated  from  her  because, 
quite  definitely,  ever  since  that  horrible  Sunday  night,  she 
hated  Aunt  Aggie.  Henry  was  separated  from  her  because 
during  these  last  months  he  had  been  so  strange  with  his 
alternate  moods  of  affection  and  abrupt  rudeness  that  she  now 
deliberately  avoided  him.  Aunt  Betty  was  separated  from 
her  because  she  simply  didn't  see  things  in  the  least  as  they 
were.  Her  father  was  separated  from  her  because  he  laughed 
at  the  situation  and  refused  to  consider  it  at  all.  Millie — 
ah!  Millie,  the  friend  of  all  her  life! — was  separated  from 
her  because  they  were  concealing  things  the  one  from  the 
other  as  they  had  never  done  in  all  their  days  before. 

Katherine  faced  these  facts.  She  had  an  illusion  about  her 
life  that  she  had  always  been  right  in  the  very  heart  of  her 
family.  She  did  not  know  that  it  had  been  their  need  of  her 
that  had  put  her  there,  and  that  now  that  she  was  turning 
away  from  them  to  someone  else,  they  were  all  rejecting  her. 
They  also  were  unaware  of  this.  They  thought  and  she 
thought  that  it  had  been  always  a  matter  of  Love  between 
them  all — but  of  course  Love  in  most  cases  is  only  a  hand- 
some name  for  selfishness. 

So  Katherine  sat  alone  in  her  room  and  waited  for  the 
thunder  to  come.  Meanwhile  she  was  immensely  surprised 
that  this  discovery  of  her  loneliness  did  not  immediately  do- 
press  her,  but  rather  aroused  in  her  a  pugnacity  and  an  inde- 
pendence that  seemed  to  her  to  be  quite  new  qualities.  And 


KATHERINE  ALONE  303 

then,  following  immediately  upon  her  pugnacity,  came  an 
overwhelming  desire  to  kiss  them  all,  to  do  anything  in  the 
world  that  they  wished,  to  love  them  all  more  than  she  had 
ever  done  before.  And  following  upon  that  came  an  aching, 
aching  desire  for  Philip,  for  his  presence,  his  eyes,  his  hair, 
his  neck,  his  hands,  his  voice.  .  .  . 

And  following  upon  that  came  Anna.  Anna  had  become 
an  obsession  to  Katherine.  If,  in  her  earlier  life,  she  had 
thought  very  intently  of  persons  or  countries  remote  from 
her,  she  would,  perhaps,  have  known  how  to  deal  with  the 
woman,  but  never  before,  in  any  crisis  or  impulse,  had  her 
imagination  been  stirred.  If  she  had  ever  thought  about 
imagination,  she  had  decided  that  Rachel  Seddon's  "Imagina- 
tion !  .  .  .  you  haven't  got  a  scrap,  my  dear !"  hurled  at  her 
once  in  the  middle  of  some  dispute,  was  absolutely  true.  But 
her  love  for  Philip  had  proved  its  preserver,  had  proved  it, 
roused  it,  stirred  it  into  a  fierce,  tramping  monster,  with 
whom  she  was  simply  unable  to  deal. 

If  only,  she  felt,  she  had  been  able  to  speak  of  her  to 
Philip!  Surely  then  the  questions  and  the  answers  would 
have  stripped  Anna  of  her  romance,  would  have  shown  her  to 
be  the  most  ordinary  of  ordinary  women,  someone  unworthy 
of  Philip,  unworthy  of  anyone's  dreams.  But  bringing  Anna 
into  the  air  had  been  forbidden — anything  better  than  to 
start  Philip  thinking  of  her — so  that  there  she  had  lingered, 
somewhere  in  the  shadow,  romantic,  provoking,  mocking, 
dangerous,  coloured  with  all  the  show  of  her  foreign  land, 
with  the  towers  and  plains  and  rivers  of  romance. 

Nevertheless  it  had  not  been  all  Katherine's  imagination. 
There  had  been  in  the  affair  some  other  agency.  Again  and 
again  Katherine  had  been  conscious  that,  in  opposition  to  her 
will,  she  was  being  driven  to  hunt  for  that  figure.  In  the 
middle  of  some  work  or  pleasure  she  would  start,  half  fright- 
ened, half  excited,  conscious  that  someone  was  behind  her, 
watching  her.  She  would  turn,  and  in  the  first  flash  of  her 
glance  it  would  seem,  to  her  that  she  caught  some  vanishing 


304  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

figure,  the  black  hair,  the  thin,  tall  body,  the  laughing,  mock- 
ing eyes. 

It  was  simply,  she  would  tell  herself,  that  her  curiosity  re- 
fused to  be  quiet.  If  only  she  might  have  known  whether 
Philip  thought  of  Anna,  whether  Anna  thought  of  Philip, 
whether  Anna  wanted  Philip  to  return  to  her,  whether  Anna 
really  despised  him,  whether  .  .  .  and  then  with  a  little 
shudder  of  dismissal,  sho  would  banish  the  Phantom,  sum- 
moning all  her  admirable  Trenchard  common-sense  to  her  aid. 
.  .  .  "That  was  past,  that  was  gone,  that  was  dead." 

She  was,  upon  this  afternoon,  at  the  point  of  summoning 
this  resolution  when  the  door  opened  and  Millie  came  in. 
For  a  moment  so  dark  was  the  room  that  she  could  not  see, 
and  cried :  "Katie,  are  you  there  ?" 

"Yes.    Here  by  the  window." 

Millie  came  across  the  room  and  stood  by  Katherine's  chair. 
In  her  voice  there  was  the  shadow  of  that  restraint  that  there 
had  been  now  between  them  ever  since  the  Sunday  with  the 
Awful  Supper. 

"It's  only  the  Post.  It's  just  come.  Two  letters  for  you — 
one  from  Philip  that  I  thought  that  you'd  like  to  have." 

Katherine  took  the  letters,  laid  them  on  her  lap,  looking 
up  at  her  sister  with  a  little  smile. 

"Well  ..."  said  Millie,  hesitating,  then,  half  turning, 
"I  must  go  back  to  Aunt  Betty — I'm  helping  her  with  the 
things." 

"No.  Don't  go."  Katherine,  who  was  staring  in  front  of 
her  now  into  the  black  well  of  a  garden,  lit  by  the  quivering, 
shaking  light,  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  Millie's  sleeve. 
Millie  stood  there,  awkwardly,  her  white  cotton  dress  shining 
against  the  darkness,  her  eyes  uncertain  and  a  little  timid. 

"I  ought  to  go,  Katie  dear.  .  .  .  Aunt  Betty — " 

"Aunt  Betty  can  wait.    Millie,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Yes,  between  us.  For  a  long  time  it's  been — and  worse 
since  Philip  went  away." 


KATHERINE  ALONE  305 

"Nothing,"  said  Millie,  slowly,  then,  quite  suddenly,  with 
one  of  those  movements  so  characteristic  of  her,  she  flung  her- 
self on  to  her  knees,  caught  Katherine's  hands,  then  stretched 
forward  and  pulled  Katherine's  head  down  to  hers — then 
kissed  her  again  and  again.  The  two  sisters  held  one  another 
in  a  close  embrace,  cheek  against  cheek,  breast  to  breast.  So 
they  stayed  for  some  time. 

At  last  Millie  slid  down  on  to  the  floor  and  rested  there, 
her  head,  with  all  its  fair  hair  ruffled  and  disordered,  on 
Katherine's  lap. 

"Well  .  .  ."  said  Katherine  at  last,  her  head  against  her 
sister's  cheek.  "Why,  all  this  time,  have  you  been  so  queer  ? 
Is  it  because  you  hate  Philip  ?" 

"No,  I  like  him." 

"Is  it  because  you  hate  me  ?" 

"No,  I  love  you." 

"Is  it  because  you  hate  my  marrying  Philip  ?" 

"No — if  you'd  do  it  at  once." 

"Do  it  at  once?" 

"Yes — now — go  up  to  London — Marry  him  to-morrow — " 

"My  dear  Millie!  .  .  .  our  year  isn't  up — nearly." 

"What  does  it  matter  about  your  year?  Better  to  break 
your  year  than  to  have  us  all  at  one  another's  throats — miser- 
able. And  then  perhaps  after  all  to  lose  Philip." 

"Lose  Philip?" 

"Yes.    He'll  go  back  to  Russia." 

The  words  flashed  before  Katherine's  eyes  like  lightning 
through  the  garden.  Her  heart  gave  a  furious  jump  and 
then  stopped. 

"Why  do  you  think  he'd  do  that  ?"  she  asked  at  last.  "Do 
you  think  he  doesn't  love  me  ?" 

"No,  it's  because  he  loves  you  so  much  that  he'd  do  it. 
Because  he'd  rather  have  none  of  you  than  only  a  bit  of  you, 
rather  have  none  of  you  than  share  you  with  us."  She  turned 
round,  staring  into  Katherine's  eyee.  "Oh,  I  understand 
him  so  well !  I  believe  I'm  the  only  one  in  all  the  family  who 


306  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

does!  You  think  that  I'm  not  grown  up  yet,  that  I  know 
nothing  about  life,  that  I  don't  know  what  people  do  or  think, 
but  I  believe  that  I  do  know  better  than  anyone !  And,  after 
all,  it's  Philip  himself  that's  made  me  see !  He  understands 
now  what  he's  got  to  give  up  if  he  marries  you — all  his 
dreams,  all  his  fun,  all  his  travels,  all  his  imagination.  You 
don't  want  to  give  up  anything,  Katie.  You  want  to  keep 
all  this,  Garth  and  the  sea,  even  the  oldest  old  man  and 
woman  in  the  place,  above  all,  you  want  to  keep  all  of  us, 
mother  most  of  all.  You  know  that  mother  hates  Philip  and 
will  always  make  him  unhappy,  but  still  you  think  that  it's 
fair  that  you  should  give  up  nothing  and  he  everything.  But 
you're  up  against  more  than  Philip,  Katie — you're  up  against 
all  his  imagination  that  won't  let  him  alone  however  much 
he  wants  it  to — and  then,"  Millie  finally  added,  turning  her 
eyes  back  to  the  other  garden — "There's  the  other  woman." 

"Why!"  Katherine  cried— "You  know?  .  .  .  Who  told 
you?" 

"And  you  know  ?"  cried  Millie.    "He  told  you  after  all  ?" 

"iBut  who  told  you  ?"  Katherine  insisted,  her  hand  on  Mil- 
lie's shoulder. 

"Henry." 

"Then  he  knows.    Who  else  ?" 

"None  of  the  family,  I  think,  unless  Henry's  told  the 
others.  I've  never  said  a  word." 

"Who  told  him  ?" 

"A  man  at  his  Club." 

There  was  silence.    Then  Katherine  said : 

"So  that's  why  you've  been  so  queer  ?" 

"Yes.  I  didn't  know  whether  he'd  told  you  or  no.  I  was 
afraid  to  say  anything.  I  thought  perhaps  he'd  told  you  and 
it  was  making  you  miserable.  Then  I  thought  that  you  ought 
to  know.  I  thought  sometimes  that  I'd  speak  to  Philip,  and 
then  I  was  afraid  of  Henry  doing  something  awful,  blurting 
it  all  out  to  everybody.  I  haven't  known  what  to  do.  But, 
Katie  darling,  you  aren't  unhappy  about  it,  are  you  ?" 


KATHERINE  ALONE  307 

"No — not  unhappy,"  said  Katherine. 

"Because  you  mustn't  be.  What  does  it  matter  what  Phil 
did  before  he  loved  you,  whom  he  knew  ?  What  does  it  mat- 
ter so  long  as  you  take  her  place?  If  ever  anybody  loved 
anybody,  Philip  loves  you.  .  .  ."  Then  she  said  quickly, 
eagerly:  "What  was  she  like,  Katie?  Did  he  tell  you? 
Did  he  describe  her  ?  Was  she  lovely,  clever  ?  What  was  her 
name?" 

"Anna,"  Katie  said. 

"Does  he  think  of  her  still?  Does  he  want  to  see  her 
again  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Katherine  said  slowly.  "That's  what's 
been  so  hard  all  these  months.  We  simply  don't  talk  of  her. 
He  doesn't  want  to  think  of  her,  nor  of  Russia,  nor  of  any  of 
that  past  life.  He  says  it's  all  dead — " 

"Well,"  said  Millie,  eagerly. 

"But  it  isn't  to  me.  I  don't  hate  her,  I'm  not  jealous,  it 
doesn't  alter  one  scrap  of  my  love  for  Phil,  but — I  don't 
know — I  feel  as  though  if  we  talked  about  it  everything 
would  clear  away.  I'd  see  then  that  she  was  just  an  ordinary 
person  like  anyone  else,  and  I  wouldn't  bother  about  her  any 
more,  as  it  is,  simply  because  I  don't  know  anything,  I 
imagine  things.  I  don't  know  whether  Philip  thinks  of  her 
or  not,  but  I  expect  that  he  does,  or  thinks  of  my  thinking 
of  her,  which  is  the  same  thing." 

"Well,  I've  thought  of  her !"  Millie  declared,  "again  and 
again.  I've  wondered  a  thousand  things,  why  she  gave  Philip 
up,  whether  she  loves  him  still,  whether  she  hates  his  being 
in  love  with  someone  else,  whether  she  writes  to  him,  what 
she's  like,  what  she  wears.  .  .  .  Doesn't  it  prove,  Katie,  how 
shut  up  we've  always  been?  Why,  even  in  Paris  I  never 
really  thought  about  anybody  whom  I  couldn't  actually  see, 
and  life  used  to  seem  too  simple  if  you  just  did  the  things  in 
front  of  your  nose — and  now  it's  only  the  things  that  aren't 
anywhere  near  you  that  seem  to  matter."  Millie  said  all 
this  as  though  she  were  fifty  years  old  at  least.  It  was  indeed 


308  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

a  real  crisis  that  she  should  be  admitted  into  the  very  heart 
of  all  this  thrilling  affair ;  she  was  rewarded  at  last  with  her 
flaming  desire,  that  'she  should  share  in  lifa*  It  was  almost 
as  though  she  herself  had  a  lover. 

Katherine  waited,  then  she  broke  out  suddenly :  "But  it's 
all  so  stupid  this.  Why  can't  things  be  perfectly  simple? 
Why  can't  Philip  like  them  and  they  like  Philip  ?  Why  can't 
Philip  and  I  marry  and  spend  part  of  the  year  here  and  part 
of  the  year  away  ?" 

"You've  got  to  choose,"  Millie  said,  "Mother  or  Philip — 
Philip  or  the  family — Philip  or  Glebeshire.  The  old  life  or 
the  new  one.  You've  tried  to  mix  it  all  up.  You  can't. 
Philip  can  change  us.  He  is  changing  us  all,  but  mix  with  us 
never.  If  he  is  forced  to,  he'll  simply  disappear." 

"My  dear,  what's  happened  to  you?"  Katherine  cried. 
"How  wise  you've  become !  How  you've  grown  up !" 

"I  am,"  said  Millie,  with  a  solemnity  that  proved  that 
'grown-up'  was  the  last  thing  that  she  really  was.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet.  She  spoke  as  though  she  were  delivering  a  chal- 
lenge. 

"Katie,  if  you  let  things  go,  if  you  let  Mother  have  her 
way,  one  of  two  things  will  happen ;  either  Philip  won't  be 
able  to  stand  it  and  will  vanish  to  Russia,  or  he'll  endure  it, 
will  be  smothered  by  us  all,  and  there'll  only  be  the  corpse 
left  for  your  enjoyment 

"Katie !"  Her  eyes  shone  with  excitement,  her  voice  quiv- 
ered with  the  thrill  of  her  intensity.  "You  must  marry 
him  now — whilst  you're  in  London.  You  must  chuck  us  all, 
show  Mother  that  Philip  comes  before  everything,  take  it  into 
your  own  hands,  send  that  Russian  woman's  ghost  back  to 
Russia  .  .  .  just  as  Browning  and  Mrs.  Browning  did,  slip 
off  one  day,  buy  some  smelling-salts  at  the  chemist's  and  be 
married !" 

She  laughed.    She  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh !  Katie !  Katie !  .  .  .  It's  the  only  way,  the  only  pos- 
sible way  I" 


CATHERINE  ALONE  309 

But  Katherine  replied:  "You're  wrong,  Millie.  I  can 
keep  it  all.  I  will  keep  it  all.  I  love  Phil,  but  I  love  Mother 
and  you  and  Henry  and  This — This — all  of  it.  If  I  were  to 
marry  Phil  now  Mother  would  never  forgive  me — you  know 
that  she  would  not.  I  could  never  come  back.  I  must  lose 
it  all." 

"You'd  rather  lose  Philip  then  ?" 

"No.    That  never!" 

"Well — Anna's  after  him,  Katie.  Russia's  after  him. 
He's  awfully  unhappy — and  you're  unfair.  You're  giving 
him  nothing,  not  even  himself.  You  say  that  you  love  him, 
but  you  want  things  all  your  way.  I  tell  you  you  deserve  to 
lose  .  .  ."  then  suddenly  softening  again:  "But  I'll  help 
you,  Katie  dear,  whatever  way  it  is.  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  that 
we've  spoken.  We're  together  now,  and  nothing  can  part  us." 

Katherine  caught  her  hand  and  held  her  close.  "What 
would  Mother  do,  do  you  think,  if  she  knew  about  Anna  ?" 
she  said,  at  last. 

"I  don't  know,"  Millie  answered,  "Mother's  so  strange.  I 
believe  she'd  do  nothing.  She'd  know  that  if  she  dismissed 
him  she'd  lose  you." 

Then  Katherine  suddenly,  holding  Millie  so  close  to  her 
that  their  hearts  beat  as  one,  said:  "I  love  him  so.  I  love 
him  so.  ...  Everything  must  go  if  he  wants  it  to." 

And  then,  as  though  the  house,  the  land,  the  place  that  had 
always  been  hers,  answered  her  challenge,  a  lightning  flash 
struck  the  darkness  and  the  rain  broke  in  a  thunder  of  sound. 

All  through  the  wedding-ceremony  Katherine  felt  insanely 
that  she  was  no  longer  a  Trenchard — insanely  because  if  she 
was  not  a  Trenchard  what  was  she  ?  Always  before  in  these 
Trenchard  gatherings  she  had  known  herself  wonderfully  at 
home,  sinking  down  with  the  kind  of  cosy  security  that  one 
greets  as  one  drops  into  a  soft,  familiar  bed.  Every  Tren- 
chard was,  in  one  way  or  another,  so  like  every  other  Tren- 
chard that  a  Trenchard  gathering  was  in  the  most  intimate 


310  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

sense  of  the  word  a  family  party.  At  a  iBeaminster  gathering 
you  were  always  aware  of  a  spirit  of  haughty  contempt  for 
the  people  who  were  still  outside,  but  at  a  Trenchard  or  Faun- 
der  assembly  the  people  outside  did  not  exist  at  all.  "They 
were  not  there."  The  Beaminsters  said :  "Those  we  don't 
know  are  not  worth  knowing."  The  Trenchards  said :  "Those 
we  can't  see  don't  exist" — and  they  could  only  see  one  an- 
other. All  this  did  not  mean  that  the  Trenchards  were  not 
very  kind  to  the  human  beings  in  the  villages  and  towns 
under  their  care.  But  then  these  dependents  were  Tren- 
chards, just  as  old  Trenchard  chairs  and  tables  in  old  Tren- 
chard houses  were  Trenchards. 

The  Beaminsters  had  been  broken  all  in  a  moment  because 
they  had  tried  to  do  something  that  their  Age  no  longer  per- 
mitted them  to  do.  The  Trenchards  were  much  more  difficult 
to  break,  because  they  were  not  trying  to  do  anything  at  all. 
There  was  no  need  for  them  to  be  "Positive"  about  any- 
thing. .  .  . 

As  old  Mrs.  Trenchard,  mother  of  Canon  Trenchard  of 
Polchester,  once  said  to  a  rebellious  daughter:  "My  dear, 
it's  no  use  your  trying  to  do  anything.  People  say  that  new 
generations  have  come  and  that  we  shall  see  great  changes. 
For  myself,  I  don't  believe  it.  England,  thank  God,  is  not 
like  one  of  those  foreign  countries.  England  never  changes 
about  the  Real  Things,"  and  by  'England'  of  course  she  meant 
'Trenchards.' 

Katherine  knew  exactly  whom  she  would  see  at  St.  Mar- 
garet's, Westminster.  From  Glebeshire  there  would  be 
Canon  Trenchard,  his  wife  and  his  two  girls,  also  the  Tren- 
chards of  Rothin  Place,  Polchester.  There  would  be  Sir 
Guy  Trenchard  from  Truxe,  and  Miss  Penelope  Trenchard 
from  Rasselas.  There  would  be  the  head  of  all  the  Tren- 
chards— Sir  Henry  Trenchard  of  Ruston  Hall,  in  Norfolk, 
and  there  would  be  Garth  Trenchard,  Esq.,  from  Bambury 
Towers,  in  Northumberland.  There  would  be  the  Medlicott 
Trenchards  of  South  Audley  Street,  the  Robert  Trenchards 


KATHERINE  ALONE  311 

from  somewhere  in  South  Kensington  (he  was  a  novelist), 
and  the  Ruston  Trenchards  from  Portland  Place.  Of  the 
Faunders  there  was  no  end — Hylton  Faunder,  the  famous 
painter,  one  of  the  props  of  the  Royal  Academy,  the  Rev. 
William  Faunder  of  St.  Mary's,  Monkston,  one  of  the  best 
of  London's  preachers,  the  Misses  Faunder  of  Hampstead, 
known  for  their  good  work,  and  others,  others  .  .  .  from 
Hampshire,  Wiltshire,  Kent,  Suffolk,  Durham,  Cumberland, 
every  county  in  England. 

Well,  there  they  all  were  in  rows ;  again  and  again  you  be- 
held the  same  white  high  forehead,  the  same  thin  and  polished 
nose,  the  same  mild,  agreeable,  well-fed,  uncritical  eyes.  How 
well  Katherine  knew  those  eyes !  She  herself  had  them,  of 
course,  but  her  mother  had  them  so  completely,  so  magnifi- 
cently, that  once  you  had  seen  Mrs.  Trenchard's  eyes  you 
would  be  able,  afterwards,  to  recognise  a  Trenchard  any- 
where. But  now,  as  Katherine  looked  about  the  church,  it 
suddenly  struck  her,  with  a  little  shiver  of  alarm,  that  all  the 
eyes  were  blind.  She  was  sitting  with  her  mother  and  Millie, 
and  she  looked  at  them  quickly  to  see  whether  they'd  noticed 
anything  strange  or  unusual — but  no,  very  placidly  and 
agreeably,  they  were  enjoying  the  comfort  and  'rightness'  of 
the  whole  affair.  .  .  . 

She  was  lonely,  then,  with  a  sudden  shock  of  acute  dis- 
tress. She  felt  suddenly,  with  positive  terror,  that  she  did 
not  belong  to  anyone  at  all.  Philip  was  miles  and  miles 
away;  as  though  it  were  the  voice  of  prophecy,  something 
seemed  to  tell  her  that  she  would  never  see  him  again.  The 
service  then  seemed  endless — she  waited  desperately  for  it  to 
close.  At  last,  when  they  all  moved  on  to  22  Bryanston 
Square,  her  impatience  simply  seemed  more  than  she  could 
control.  The  presents  were  there,  and  many,  many  beautiful 
clothes  and  shining  collars  and  cakes  that  no  one  wanted  to 
eat,  and  over  and  over  again,  a  voice  (it  seemed  always  the 
same  voice)  saying :  "How  nice !  How  delightful !  ...  so 
glad  ...  so  fortunate.  .  .  ."  At  last  she  was  on  her  way 


312  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

back  to  Westminster.  She  had  now  only  this  one  thought, 
that  unless  she  were  very  quick  she  would  never  see  Philip 
again.  He  had  said  that  he  would  come  to  her  for  a  moment 
after  the  wedding,  and,  when  at  the  doorway  of  the  drawing- 
room  she  caught  a  reflection  of  his  figure  in  the  mirror,  her 
heart  bounded  with  relief.  How  silly  of  her.  What  had  she 
supposed?  Nevertheless,  quite  breathlessly,  she  caught  hia 
hand. 

"Oh,  Phil!  I'm  so  glad!  .  .  .  Come  up  to  the  school- 
room. We  shall  be  alone  there!" 

The  schoolroom,  that  had  once  been  the  nursery,  packed 
away  at  the  very  top  of  the  house,  was  bathed  with  the  rich 
evening  glow.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  held  her,  and  she 
kissed  him,  passionately,  with  clinging,  eager  kisses.  Then, 
with  a  little  happy  sigh,  she  released  him. 

The  old  shabby  room,  with  its  old  shabby  books,  Charlotte 
Mary  Yonge  and  Mrs.  Ewing  and  Henty,  and  the  Christmas 
Supplements  on  the  walls  and  the  old  grate  that  seemed  still 
to  be  sunk  in  happy  reveries  of  roasted  chestnuts  and  toffee 
and  toast,  reassured  her. 

"Oh,  Phil !"  she  cried.  "I  thought  I  was  never  going  to 
get  to  you  1" 

She  looked  at  him,  carefully,  luxuriously,  with  all  the  hap- 
piness of  possessing  something  known  and  proved  and  loved. 
Why,  were  it  the  ugliest  face  in  the  world,  the  oldest,  shab- 
biest body,  nothing  now  could  change  her  attachment.  That 
was  why,  with  true  love,  old  age  and  decay  did  not,  could  not 
matter — and  here,  after  all,  was  her  possession,  as  far  from 
old  age  as  anyone  could  be,  strong  and  thick-set  and  with  the 
whole  of  life  before  it !  But  he  seemed  tired  and  depressed. 
He  was  very  quiet,  and  sat  there  close  to  her,  holding  her 
hand,  loving  her,  but  subdued,  saying  very  little.  He  had 
changed.  He  was  not  now  that  eager,  voluble  figure  that  had 
burst  through  the  fog  on  that  first  wonderful  evening  so  long 
ago. 


KATHEKINE  ALONE  313 

"Phil — you're  tired!"  she  said  quickly,  looking  up  into 
his  eyes. 

"Yes.  I  am  rather,"  he  answered.  "It's  been  awfully  hot. 
Was  it  very  splendid  ?" 

"The  wedding?  .  .  .  No,  horrid.  .  .  .  Just  like  any 
other,  and  I  can't  tell  you  anything  about  it,  because  I  didn't 
notice  a  thing." 

But  he  didn't  ask  her.  He  didn't  want  to  know  anything 
about  it.  He  only  wanted  to  have  her  there.  They  sat 
quietly,  very  close  to  one  another.  Her  terror  and  her  loneli- 
ness left  her.  The  Abbey  clock  boomed  the  hour,  and  a  little 
clock  in  the  room  gave  a  friendly,  intimate  echo. 

"Your  mother's  asked  me  to  go  back  to  Garth  with  you," 
he  suddenly  said. 

Katherine  remembered  how  triumphant  she  had  been  when, 
upon  a  certain  earlier  occasion,  he  had  told  her  that.  Now 
her  alarm  returned ;  her  hand  trembled  on  his  knee. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Oh!  I'm  going  of  course.  You'll  be  there,  and  I  want 
to  do  what  your  mother  wishes." 

'He  said  this  very  quietly,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  little 
smile. 

"Phil,  don't  go!"  she  said  suddenly.  "You're  happier 
here.  We'll  be  up  in  October." 

"October!"  he  answered,  still  very  quietly,  "that's  a  long 
time  to  wait — and  I  haven't  had  very  much  of  you  lately. 
It  won't  help  things  very  much  my  staying  here — and  I  want 
to  please  your  mother,"  he  ended.  "I've  a  kind  of  idea,"  he 
went  on,  "that  she'll  get  to  like  me  later,  when  she  really  gets 
to  know  me.  I've  been  thinking  all  this  time  in  London  that 
I  behaved  very  badly  when  I  was  down  there  before.  Wanted 
everything  my  own  way." 

Katherine  could  say  nothing.  In  between  them  once  more 
was  that  shadow.  To  speak  right  out  would  mean  the  old 
business  all  over  again,  the  business  that  they  had  both  reso- 
lutely dismissed.  To  speak  out  would  mean  Anna  and  the 


314?  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

family,  and  that  same  demand  once  more — that  Katherine 
should  choose.  One  word  and  she  knew  that  he  would  be 
pleading  with  all  his  force :  "Marry  me  now !  Come  off  with 
me !  Slip  out  of  the  house  and  have  it  over." 

But  she  could  not — she  was  not  ready.  Give  them  all  up, 
cut  her  life  in  half,  fling  them  all  away  ?  No,  still  she  clung 
desperately  to  the  belief  that  she  would  keep  them  both,  the 
family  and  Philip,  the  old  life  and  the  new.  She  heard 
Millie  urging  her,  she  saw  Philip  quietly  determined  to  say 
nothing  now  until  she  led  the  way — but  she  could  not  do  it, 
she  could  not,  could  not  do  it ! 

So  they  sat  there,  holding  hands,  his  shoulder  against  hers, 
until  at  last  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  After  he  had  left  her, 
whilst  she  was  dressing  for  dinner,  she  had  a  moment  of 
panic  and  almost  ran  out  of  the  house,  just  as  she  was,  to  find 
him.  But  the  Trenchard  blood  reasserted  itself;  she  went 
down  to  dinner  calm  and  apparently  at  ease. 

That  night,  when  they  had  all  gone  up  to  their  rooms,  she 
stood  for  a  moment  waiting  outside  her  bedroom  door,  then, 
as  though  some  sudden  resolve  had  come  to  her,  turned  and 
walked  to  her  mother's  door.  She  knocked,  entered  and  found 
her  mother  standing  in  front  of  her  looking-glass.  She  had 
slipped  off  her  evening  dress,  there  with  her  short  white 
sleeves,  from  which  her  stout,  firm  bare  arms  stood  out  strong 
and  reliant,  with  her  thick  neck,  her  sturdy  legs,  she  seemed, 
in  spite  of  her  grey  hair,  in  the  very  plenitude  of  her 
strength.  Her  mild  eyes,  large  and  calm,  her  high  white  fore- 
head, the  whole  poise  of  her  broad,  resolute  back  seemed  to 
Katherine  to  have  something  defiant  and  challenging  in  it. 
Her  mouth  was  full  of  hair-pins,  but  she  nodded  and  smiled 
to  her  daughter. 

"May  I  come  in,  Mother,"  said  Katherine,  "I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Katherine  thought  of  that  earlier  occasion  in  that  same 
room  when  she  had  first  spoken  of  her  engagement.  How  far 
apart  since  then  they  had  grown !  It  seemed  to  her  to-night, 


KATHERINE  ALONE  315 

as  she  looked  at  that  broad  white  back,  that  she  was  looking 
at  a  stranger.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  an  extraordinary  stranger,  a 
really  marvellous  woman.  How  curious  that  Katherine 
should  have  been  living  during  all  those  years  of  intimate 
affection  with  her  mother  and  have  thought  of  her  never — 
no,  never  at  all.  She  had  taken  her,  her  love,  her  little  habits, 
her  slow  voice,  her  relentless  determination,  her  'managing7 — 
all  these  things  and  many  more — as  though  they  had  been  in- 
evitably outside  argument,  statement  or  gratitude.  But  now, 
simply  because  of  the  division  that  there  was  between  them, 
she  saw  her  as  a  marvellous  woman,  the  strangest  mingling 
of  sweetness  and  bitterness,  of  tenderness  and  hardness,  of 
unselfishness  and  relentless  egotism.  She  saw  this,  suddenly, 
standing  there  in  the  doorway,  and  the  imminent  flash  of  it 
struck  her  for  an  instant  with  great  fear.  Then  she  saw 
Philip  and  gained  her  courage. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mother,"  she  repeated,  moving 
into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Well,  dear  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  through  the  hair- 
pins. She  did  not  let  down  her  hair,  but  after  another  glance 
into  the  mirror,  moved  away,  found  a  pink  woolly  dressing- 
gown,  which  she  put  on.  Then  sat  down  on  the  old  sofa,  tak- 
ing up,  as  she  always  did,  a  little  piece  of  work — this  time  it 
was  some  long  red  worsted  that  she  was  knitting.  It  curled 
away  from  her,  like  a  scarlet  snake,  under  the  flickering  light 
of  the  candles  on  her  dressing-table,  disappearing  into  dark- 
ness. 

Katherine  stood  in  front  of  her  mother,  with  her  hands 
behind  her,  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  a  very  little  girl. 

"Well,  dear,  what  is  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard  again. 

"Mother — I  don't  want  you  to  have  Philip  down  at  Garth." 

"Why  not,  dear  ?    I  thought  you  would  like  it." 

"He  isn't  happy  there." 

"Well,  he's  only  got  to  say  so.  ...  He  needn't  come." 

"If  he  doesn't— he's  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 


316  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Afraid  of  losing  me."  Katherine,  as  she  said  this,  made 
a  little  forward  movement  with  her  hand  as  though  she  were 
asking  for  help,  but  Mrs.  Trenchard's  eyes  were  wide  and 
cold. 

"Afraid  of  losing  you?  .  .  .  My  dear,  he  can't  trust  you 
very  much !" 

"No,  no,  it  isn't  that !  .  .  .  He  knows  that  you,  the  others 
don't  like  him.  He  hates  Garth — at  least  he  hates  it  if  he's 
always  got  to  live  there.  If  he's  alone  here  in  London  he 
thinks  that  you'll  persuade  me  never  to  leave  you,  that  you'll 
get  the  tighter  hold  of  me,  that — Oh !  I  can't  explain  it  all !" 
she  broke  off  quite  desperately.  "But  it  isn't  good  for  him  to 
be  there?  he's  unhappy,  he's  depressed.  Mother,  why  do  you 
hate  him  ?"  she  cried,  suddenly  challenging  the  whole  room, 
with  its  old  familiar  pictures,  its  books  and  furniture  to 
answer  her. 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  very  quietly,  counting 
her  stitches  and  nodding  her  head  at  her  stocking,  "that 
you're  taking  all  this  in  a  very  exaggerated  fashion — and  you 
never  used  to  be  exaggerated,  Katie,  my  dear — no,  you  never 
used  to  be.  I  often  used  to  say  what  a  comfort  and  help  I 
always  found  you,  because  you  saw  things  as  they  were — not 
like  Millie  and  Henry,  who  would  get  excited  sometimes  over 
very  little.  But  your  engagement's  changed  you,  Katie  dear 
— it  really  has — more  than  I  should  have  expected." 

Katherine,  during  this  speech,  had  summoned  her  control. 
She  spoke  now  with  a  voice  low  and  quiet — ridiculously  like 
her  mother's  an  observer  might  have  thought. 

"Mother,  I  don't  want  to  be  exaggerated — I  don't  indeed. 
But,  all  these  last  six  months,  we've  never  said  to  one  another 
what  we've  thought,  have  never  spoken  openly  about  any- 
thing— and  now  we  must.  It  can't  go  on  like  this." 

"Like  what,  Katie  dear  ?" 

"Never  knowing  what  we're  really  thinking.  We've  be- 
come a  dreadful  family — even  father's  noticed  it." 


KATHERINE  ALONE  317 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard  slowly.  "We  were  all 
happier  before  Philip  came." 

Katherine's  cheeks  flushed.  "That's  unkind,  Mother  I"  she 
cried.  Her  voice  grew  harder.  "Please  don't  say  anything 
about  Philip  unless  you  must.  It  makes  everything  very 
difficult.  I  know  that  you  don't  like  him.  You  see  him 
strangely,  you  put  him  in  the  wrong  whatever  he  does.  But, 
Mother,"  her  voice  softened  again.  "It  isn't  that.  We  can't 
alter  that.  Phil  will  never  be  at  his  best  at  Garth — not  as 
things  are  now.  But  if  we  were  married.  Oh !  you  would 
see  how  fine  things  would  be!"  Her  voice  was  eager,  excited 
now.  "He  would  be  happy  and  quite,  quite  different  with 
everyone.  I  know  him.  He  depends  so  much — too  much — 
on  what  people  think  of  him.  He  knows  that  you  don't  like 
him,  and  that  makes  him  embarrassed  and  cross — at  his  worst. 
But  he's  splendid,  really,  he  is,  indeed,  and  you'd  see  it  if  we 
were  married  and  this  horrid  engagement  were  over.  He's 
fine  in  every  way,  but  he's  different  from  us — he's  seen  so 
much  more,  knows  life  that  we  can't  know,  has  other  stand- 
ards and  judgments.  Everyone  can't  be  like  us,  Mother. 
There  rmist  be  people  who  want  different  things  and  think 
different  things.  Why  should  he  be  made  into  something  like 
us,  forced  to  think  as  we  do  ?  .  .  .  Mother,  let  us  be  married 
soon,  at  once,  perhaps,  and  then  everything  will  be  right — " 
She  stopped,  breathless  then,  in  her  eagerness,  bent  down  and 
kissed  her  mother's  cheek. 

But  Mrs.  Trenchard's  cheek  was  very  cold. 

"Your  father  said  a  year,"  she  answered,  counting  her 
stitches,  "four,  five,  six — Yes,  a  year.  And  you  agreed  to 
that,  you  know." 

Katherine  turned,  with  a  sharp  movement,  away,  clenching 
her  hands.  At  that  moment  she  hated  her  mother,  hated  with 
a  hot,  fiery  impulse  that  urged  her  to  leave  the  room,  the 
house,  the  family  at  that  very  instant,  flinging  out,  banging 
the  door,  and  so  settle  the  whole  affair  for  ever. 


318  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Mrs.  Trenchard  made  no  sound.  Her  needles  clicked. 
Then  she  said,  as  though  she  had  been  looking  things  over : 

"Do  you  think  it's  good  of  you,  Katherine,  considering 
how  much  all  these  years  we've  all  been  to  one  another,  to 
persist  in  marrying  a  man  whom,  after  really  doing  our  best, 
we  all  of  us — yes,  all  of  us — dislike?  You're  of  age,  my 
dear — you  can  do  as  you  please.  It  was  your  father  who  con- 
sented to  this  engagement,  I  was  not  asked.  And  now,  after 
all  these  months,  it  is  hardly  a  success,  is  it  ?  You  are  losing 
us  all — and  I  believe  we  still  mean  something  to  you.  And 
Philip.  How  can  you  know  about  him,  my  dear?  You  are 
in  love  now,  but  that — that  first  illusion  goes  very  quickly 
after  marriage.  And  then — when  it  has  gone — do  you  think 
that  he  will  be  a  good  companion  for  you,  so  different  from 
us  all,  with  such  strange  ideas  picked  up  in  foreign  coun- 
tries? You  don't  know  what  he  may  have  done  before  he 
met  you.  ...  I  don't  appeal  to  your  love  for  us,  as  once  I 
might  have  done,  but  to  your  common-sense — your  common- 
sense.  Is  it  worth  while  to  lose  us,  whom  you  know,  in  ex- 
change for  a  man  of  whom  you  can  know  nothing  at  all  ?  .  .  . 
Just  give  me  those  scissors  off  the  dressing-table.  The  little 
ones,  dear." 

Katherine  turned  at  the  dressing-table.  "iBut,"  she  cried, 
her  voice  full  of  passionate  entreaty,  "why  must  I  give  you 
up  because  I  marry  him  ?  Why  can't  I  have  you — all  of  you 
— and  him  as  well  ?  Why  must  I  choose  ?"  Then  she  added 
defiantly :  "Millie  doesn't  dislike  him — nor  Aunt  Betty." 

"Millie's  very  young,"  answered  her  mother.  "Thank  you, 
my  dear,  and  as  you  are  there,  just  that  thimble.  Thank 
you  .  .  .  and  your  Aunt  Betty  likes  everyone." 

"And  then,"  Katherine  went  on,  "why  do  you  see  it  from 
everyone's  point  of  view  except  mine?  It's  my  life,  my  fu- 
ture. You're  settled — all  of  you,  you,  father,  Aunt  Aggie, 
Aunt  Betty — but  with  Millie  and  Henry  and  I  everything's 
to  come.  And  yet  you  expect  us  to  do  all  the  things,  think  all 
the  things  that  you've  done  and  thought.  We're  different, 


KATHERINE  ALONE  319 

we're  another  generation.  If  we  weren't  behind  everyone  else 
there  wouldn't  be  anything  to  talk  about  at  all.  All  parents 
now,"  Katherine  ended,  with  an  air  of  profound  knowledge, 
"think  of  their  children.  Life  isn't  what  it  was  fifty  years 
ago." 

Mrs.  Trenchard  smiled  a  grim  little  smile.  "These  are  the 
things,  my  dear,  I  suppose,  that  Philip's  been  telling  you. 
You  must  remember  that  he's  been  living  for  years  in  a  coun- 
try where  one  can  apparently  do  anything  one  pleases  without 
being  thought  wicked,  and  where  you're  put  in  prison  a  great 
deal,  but  only  for  rather  innocent  crimes.  I  don't  pretend 
to  understand  all  that.  We  may  be — perhaps  we  are — an 
old-fashioned  family,  but  the  fact  remains  that  we  were  all 
happy  enough  a  year  ago." 

She  picked  up  the  long  trailing  serpent,  then  concluded: 
"But  you're  free,  Katie  dear.  Perfectly  free." 

"If  I  were  to  go,"  said  Katie,  staring  at  her  mother's  face, 
so  like  that  of  an  uneloquent  baby,  "if  I  were  to  go  off  now. 
If  we  were  to  be  married  at  once — would  you — would  you — 
turn  us  out — have  no  more  to  do  with  us  ?" 

She  waited  as  though  her  whole  life  hung  on  her  mother's 
answer. 

"I  really  don't  know  what's  happened  to  you,  Katie,"  Mrs. 
Trenchard  answered  very  quietly.  "You're  like  a  young 
woman  in  a  play — and  you  used  to  be  so  sensible.  Just  give 
me  those  scissors  again,  dear.  Certainly  if  you  were  to  marry 
Philip  to-morrow,  without  waiting  until  the  end  of  the  year, 
as  you  promised,  I  should  feel — we  should  all  feel — that  you 
had  given  us  up.  It  would  be  difficult  not  to  feel  that." 

"And  if  we  wait  until  the  end  of  the  year  and  then  many 
and  don't  live  in  Glebeshire  but  somewhere  else — will  you 
give  us  up  then?" 

"My  dear,  isn't  it  quite  simple  ?  We've  given  Philip  every 
opportunity  of  knowing  us — we're  now  just  going  to  give  him 
another.  If  he  loves  you  he  will  not  want  to  take  you  away 


320  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

from  all  of  us  who  love  you  also.  He'll  do  his  best  to  like  ua 
—to  settle — " 

"To  settle!"  Katherine  cried.  "Don't  you  see  that  that's 
what  he's  tried  to  do — and  he  can't — he  can't!  It's  killing 
him — and  you  want  him  to  be  killed !  .  .  .  You'd  like  him 
to  leave  me,  and  if  he  von't  do  that  you'll  break  his  will,  keep 
him  under  you,  ruin  his  spirit.  .  .  .  Mother,  let  him  alone—- 
If we  marry,  after  six  months,  let  us  lead  our  own  lives. 
You'll  see  I  shall  be  as  much  yours  as  ever,  more  than  ever. 
It  will  be  all  right.  It  must  be !" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said  then  her  final  word. 

"If  you  leave  us  for  Philip  that  is  your  affair.  I  do  my 
best  to  keep  you  both.  You've  talked  much,  Katie  dear,  about 
our  dislike  of  Philip — what  of  his  dislike  of  us?  Is  that 
nothing  ?  Doesn't  he  show  it  every  moment  of  the  day  ?  Un- 
less he  hates  us  less  you'll  have  to  choose.  You'll  have  to 
choose — let  him  come  down  to  Garth  then — we'll  do  every- 
thing for  him." 

Katherine  would  have  answered,  but  a  sudden  catch  in  her 
mother's  voice,  a  sudden,  involuntary  closing  of  the  eyes, 
made  her  dart  forward. 

"Mother,  you're  tired." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  very." 

They  sat  down  on  the  old  sofa  together.  Mrs.  Trenchard, 
her  arms  folded,  leant  back  against  her  daughter's  shoulder. 

"Just  a  moment,  Katie  dear,"  she  murmured,  "before  I 
undress." 

Suddenly  she  was  asleep. 

Katherine  sat  stiffly,  staring  before  her  into  the  room.  Her 
arm  was  round  her  mother,  and  with  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
she  felt  the  soft  firmness  of  the  shoulder  beneath  the  dressing- 
gown.  Often  in  the  old  days  her  mother  had  thus  leant 
against  her.  The  brushing  of  her  hair  against  Katherine'a 
cheek  brought  back  to  the  girl  thronging  memories  of  happy, 
tranquil  hours.  Those  memories  flung  before  her,  like  re- 
proaching, haunting  ghosts,  her  present  unhappiness.  Her 


KATHEEINE  ALONE  321 

love  for  her  mother  filled  her  heart;  her  body  thrilled  with 
the  sense  of  it.  And  so,  there  in  the  clumsy,  familiar  room, 
the  loneliest  hour  of  all  life  came  to  her. 

She  was  separated  from  them  all.  She  seemed  to  know 
that  she  was  holding  her  mother  thus  for  the  last  time.  .  .  . 
Then  as  her  hands  tightened,  in  very  protest,  about  the  slum- 
bering body,  she  was  conscious  of  the  presence,  behind  her, 
just  then  where  she  could  not  see,  of  the  taunting,  laughing 
figure.  She  could  catch  the  eyes,  the  scornful  lips,  the  thin, 
defiant  attitude. 

"I'll  take  him  back!  I'll  take  him  back!"  the  laughing 
figure  cried. 

But  Katherine  had  her  bravery.    She  summoned  it  all. 

"I'll  beat  you !"  she  answered,  her  arms  tight  around  her 
mother.  "I've  made  my  choice.  He's  mine  now  whatever 
you  try  I" 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    MIEEOE 

PHILIP  had  never  had  any  conceit  of  himself — that  is, 
he  could  not  remember  the  time  when  he  had  been  satis- 
fied with  what  he  had  done,  or  pleased  with  the  figure  that  he 
presented.  The  selfish  actions  in  his  life  had  always  arisen 
from  unselfish  motives,  because  he  had  been  afraid  of  hurting 
or  vexing  other  people,  because  he  thought  other  people  finer 
than  himself.  Even  when,  as  in  the  case  of  Seymour,  he 
burst  out  in  indignation  at  something  that  he  felt  to  be  pre- 
tentious and  false,  he,  afterwards,  on  thinking  it  over,  won- 
dered whether  the  man  hadn't  after  all  been  right  'from  his 
point  of  view/  It  was  this  ability  to  see  the  other  person's 
point  of  view  that  had  been,  and  would  always  be,  the  curse 
of  his  life. 

Such  men  as  Philip  are  not  among  the  fine  creatures  of  the 
world.  Very  rightly  they  are  despised  for  their  weakness, 
their  lack  of  resistance,  their  inability  to  stand  up  for  them- 
selves. It  is  possible,  nevertheless,  that  in  heavon  they  will 
find  that  they,  too,  have  their  fine  side.  And  this  possibility 
of  an  ultimate  divine  comprehension  irritates,  very  naturally, 
their  fellow  human  beings  who  resent  any  defence  of  weak- 
ness. Philip  himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  resent  it. 
He  never  consoled  himself  with  thought  of  heaven,  but  took, 
now  and  then,  a  half-humorous,  half-despairing  glance  at  him- 
self, swore,  as  he  had  in  those  long-ago  days  sworn  about  his 
mother,  'how  this  shall  never  happen  again',  and  then  once 
more  was  defeated  by  his  imagination. 

In  this  matter  of  the  Trenchards  he  saw  only  too  plainly 

322 


THE  MIRROR  323 

everyone's  point  of  view ;  even  with  Aunt  Aggie  he  saw  that 
she  was  an  old  disappointed  woman  who  disliked  change  and 
loved  power  so  long  as  she  need  not  struggle  for  it.  Mrs. 
Trenchard  he  did  not  understand,  because  he  was  afraid  of 
her.  His  fear  of  her  had  grown  and  grown  and  grown,  and 
in  that  fear  was  fascination,  hatred,  and  admiration.  He 
felt  now  quite  definitely  that  he  was  beaten  by  her.  He  had 
felt  that,  after  she  had  taken  no  notice  whatever  of  his  public 
scene  with  Aunt  Aggie.  She  would  now,  he  believed,  take  no 
notice  of  anything.  He  knew  also,  now,  of  her  hold  over 
Katherine.  He  must  stay  with  Katherine  because  he  loved 
her.  Therefore  he  must  submit  to  Mrs.  Trenchard  ...  it 
was  all  quite  simple. — Meanwhile  to  submit  to  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard meant,  he  knew,  to  such  a  character  as  his,  extinction. 
He  knew.  Oh !  .  .  .  better  than  anyone  else  in  the  world — 
the  kind  of  creature  that,  under  her  influence,  he  would  be- 
come. He  saw  the  others  under  her  influence,  the  men  and 
women  of  the  village,  the  very  chickens  and  pigs  in  the  neigh- 
bouring farms.  He  knew  what  he  had  been  under  his  mother, 
he  knew  what  he  had  been  under  Anna,  he  knew  what  now  he 
would  be  under  Mrs.  Trenchard.  Well,  extinction  was  a  sim- 
ple thing  enough  if  you  made  up  your  mind  to  it — why 
struggle  any  further  ? 

But  day  and  night,  increasingly,  as  the  weeks  passed,  he 
was  being  urged  to  escape.  All  this  summer,  Anna,  no  longer 
a  suggestion,  no  longer  a  memory,  but  now  a  vital,  bodily 
presence,  was  urging  him.  Her  power  over  him  was  not  in 
the  least  because  he  was  still  in  love  with  her — he  loved  only 
Katherine  in  all  the  world — but  because  of  the  damnable 
common-sense  of  what  she  said.  What  she  said  was  this : 

"Here  you  are  amongst  all  these  funny  people.  You  are 
too  much  in  the  middle  of  them  to  see  it  plainly  for  yourself, 
but  I'm  a  ghost  and  can  see  everything  quite  clearly ;  I  know 
you — better  than  you  know  yourself.  This  Mrs.  Trenchard  is 
determined  never  to  let  her  daughter  go.  You  say  that  you 
love  this  young  woman,  although  what  you  can  see  in  her 


324  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

stupid  English  solidity  I  can't  imagine.  However,  you  were 
always  a  fool.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  if  you  love  her  it's  for  her 
sake  that  you  must  escape.  You  know  the  kind  of  creature 
you're  going  to  be  if  you  stay.  What  does  she  want  with 
such  a  man  ?  When  she  wakes  up,  about  a  week  after  mar- 
riage, and  finds  you  under  the  thumb  of  her  mother,  what  will 
happen  to  her  love  ?  She  may  continue  to  love  you — English 
women  are  so  stupid — but  she'll  certainly  despise  you.  Come 
back  to  Russia.  It  isn't  that  I  want  you,  or  will  take  you 
back  into  my  life,  but  she'll  find  out  what  you're  worth  then. 
If  she  really  loves  yoii  she'll  have  to  come  after  you.  Then 
you'll  have  broken  with  the  family  and  will  be  free.  Run 
away,  I  tell  you.  It's  the  only  thing  to  do." 

All  this  he  heard  during  a  terribly  heavy  three  weeks  with 
relatives  in  the  North,  during  a  hot  and  glittering  July  in 
London  when  the  world  seemed  to  gyrate  with  the  flashing 
cabs,  the  seething  crowds,  the  glass  and  flowers  and  scents  of 
a  London  season.  Katherine  seemed  dreadfully  far  away 
from  him.  He  was  aware  very  vividly  how  bad  it  was  for  a 
healthy  young  man  of  his  age  to  have  no  definite  occupation. 
The  men  whom  he  knew  in  town  seemed  to  him  both  uninter- 
esting and  preoccupied.  A  day  in  England  seemed  of  so  vast 
a  length.  In  Russia  time  had  been  of  no  importance  at  all, 
and  one  day  had  vanished  into  another  without  any  sound  or 
sign.  Here  every  clock  in  the  town  seemed  to  scream  to  him 
that  he  must  take  care  to  make  the  most  of  every  second. 
This  practical  English  world,  moreover,  could  offer  no 
friendly  solution  for  the  troubles  that  beset  him. 

He  knew  very  well  that  if  he  asked  any  man  at  the  club 
for  advice  he  would  be  frankly  dismissed  for  a  fool.  "What ! 
You  like  the  girl  but  can't  bear  the  Mother-in-law !  My  dear 
boy,  any  music  hall  will  tell  you  how  common  that  is.  Wait 
till  you're  married,  then  you  can  clear  off  all  right — let  the 
~»ld  woman  scream  as  much  as  you  like.  What !  the  girl  wants 
to  rtay  with  the  mother  ?  Well,  again,  wait  till  you're  mar- 
ried. The  girl  will  follow  you  fast  enough  then !" 


THE  MIRROR  325 

How  could  he  expect  that  any  ordinary  healthy  English- 
man would  understand  the  soft,  billowy,  strangling  web  that 
the  Trenchard  family  had,  by  this  time,  wound  about  him? 
Yes,  another  six  months  would  complete  the  business.  .  .  . 

One  hope  remained  to  him — that  when  they  knew  of  his 
immoral  life  in  Moscow  they  would  definitely  insist  on  Kath< 
erine's  leaving  him — and,  if  it  came  to  that,  she  would  stand 
by  him.  He  knew  that  she  would  stand  by  him.  He  would 
himself  long  ago  have  told  Trenchard  had  he  not  been  sure 
that  someone  else  would  do  that  for  him,  and  that  then  the 
sense  of  his  own  subterfuge  and  concealment  would  add  to 
their  horror  and  disgust. 

The  stronger  their  disgust  the  better  for  him. 

The  day  of  that  disclosure  seemed  now  his  only  hope.  Let 
them  fling  him  off  and  he  knew  what  Katherine  would  do ! ... 

Upon  a  torrid  afternoon,  two  days  after  the  Trenchard- 
Faunder  wedding,  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  Katherine 
drove  him  to  the  Westminster  house.  He  rang  the  bell,  and 
was  told  by  Rocket,  who  always  treated  him  with  an  air  of 
polite  distrust,  that  the  ladies  wera  out,  but  might  be  in  at 
any  time. 

"I  will  wait,"  said  Philip. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  Rocket  reluctantly,  and  showed  him 
into  the  drawing-room,  cool  and  damp  like  a  green  cave.  To 
Rocket's  own  restrained  surprise,  old  Mr.  Trerichard  was 
there  sitting  quite  alone,  with  a  shawl  covering  his  knees,  in 
a  large  arm-chair  near  the  empty  fireplace. 

The  old  gentleman  showed  no  interest  whatever  in  the 
opening  of  the  door,  and  continued  to  stare  in  front  of  him 
through  his  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses,  his  hands  pressed  fiercely 
into  his  knees.  Rocket  hesitated  a  moment,  then  withdrew, 
closing  the  door  behind  him. 

Philip  advanced  slowly  into  the  room.  One  of  his  diffi- 
culties with  old  Mr.  Trenchard  had  always  been  that  he  was 
not  sure  whether  he  were  truly  deaf  or  no.  On  certain  oc- 
casions there  had  been  no  question  old  Mr.  Trenchard  was  not 


326  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

at  all  deaf,  and  then  again  on  others  deaf  as  a  crab !  He  had 
never  shown  any  marked  signs  of  being  aware  of  Philip's 
existence.  There  were  many  weeks  that  he  spent  in  his  own 
room,  and  he  could  not  be  said  to  show  a  very  active  conscious- 
ness of  anyone  except  Katherine,  whom  he  adored,  and  Aunt 
Aggie,  whom  he  hated. 

But,  altogether,  he  was  to  Philip  a  terrible  old  man.  Like 
a  silver-grey  shadow,  beautiful  perhaps,  with  the  silver 
buckles  on  his  shoes,  his  delicate  hands  and  his  snow-white 
hair,  but  emphatically  terrible  to  Philip,  who  throve  and  blos- 
somed under  warm  human  intercourse,  and  shrivelled  into 
nothing  at  all  under  a  silent  and  ghostly  disapproval. 

But  to-day  Philip  was  desperate  and  defiant.  This  old 
man  would  never  die  any  more  than  this  old  drawing-room, 
reflected  in  the  green  mirror,  would  ever  change. 

"I'd  like  to  smash  that  mirror,"  thought  Philip,  "smash  it 
into  pieces.  That  would  change  the  room  if  anything  would. 
Why,  I  believe  the  whole  family  would  tumble  like  a  pack  of 
cards  if  I  smashed  that  mirror.  I  believe  the  old  man  himself 
would  vanish  into  thin  air." 

"Good  afternoon,  sir,"  Philip  said — and  then  thought  to 
himself:  <rWhy  should  I  be  afraid  of  the  old  image?  He 
can't  eat  me !" 

He  walked  over,  close  to  him,  and  shouted : 

"Good  afternoon,  sir." 

The  old  man  never  stirred,  not  an  eyelid  quivered,  but  he 
replied  in  his  clear,  silvery  voice,  "Good  afternoon  to  you." 

He  might  indeed  have  been  an  Idol  in  his  old  particular 
temple — the  old  green  room  waited  around  him  with  the 
patient  austerity  that  a  shrine  pays  to  its  deity.  The  lamp 
on  a  distant  table  flung  a  mild  and  decent  glow. 

"I'm  damned  if  I'm  going  to  be  afraid  of  him,"  thought 
Philip,  and,  taking  a  chair,  he  dragged  it  very  close  to  the 
other's  throne.  Sitting  there,  near  to  him,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  light,  mild  though  it  was,  really  did  go  right  through 
the  old  fellow,  his  cheeks,  like  the  finest  egg-shell  china, 


THE  MIRROK  327 

seemed  to  catch  the  glow,  store  it  for  an  instant  in  some  fine 
inner  receptacle  and  then  pass  it  out  on  the  other  side.  It 
was  only  the  eyes  that  were  not  fine.  They  were  true  Tren- 
chard  eyes,  and  now,  in  old  age,  they  were  dull  and  almost 
dead. 

They,  ever  so  faintly,  hinted  that  the  beauty,  fine  as  the 
present  glass,  was  of  the  surface  only,  and  had,  behind  it, 
no  soul. 

''It's  a  very  hot  day,"  said  Philip,  in  a  voice  that  was  in- 
tended for  a  shout  if  the  old  man  were  really  deaf  and  pleas- 
ant cheerfulness  if  he  were  not,  "really  very  hot  indeed.  But 
this  room's  so  very  cool.  Delightful." 

Mr.  Trenchard  did  then  very  slowly  raise  his  head  and  look 
at  Philip  through  his  glasses.  Then  very  slowly  lowered  his 
eyes  again. 

"My  daughter  will  be  here  very  shortly  to  receive  you," 
he  said. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  to  you,"  Philip  said,  still  very  cheerfully. 
"We've  not  had  many  talks  together,  have  we  ?  and  that  really 
isn't  right,  considering  that  I'm  engaged  to  your  grand- 
daughter." 

The  old  man  picked  up  a  magazine  that  lay  on  the  little 
table  that  was  in  front  of  him.  "Do  you  ever  see  -Black- 
wood  ?"  he  said,  as  though  he  were  very  politely  making  con- 
versation for  a  complete  stranger.  "It's  a  magazine  for 
which  I  have  a  great  liking.  It  seems  to  me  to  keep  up  its 
character  wonderfully — most  agreeable  reading — most  agree- 
able reading." 

It  was  then  that  Philip,  looking  up,  caught  a  reflection  of 
Mr.  Trenchard's  face  in  the  Mirror.  It  may  have  been  imag- 
ination or  it  may  have  been  the  effect  of  shadow,  or  again  it 
may  have  been  nothing  but  truth — in  any  case  it  seemed  to 
Philip  that  the  old  man's  expression  was  an  amazing  mixture 
of  pathos  and  wickedness — a  quite  intolerable  expression. 
Philip  made  a  movement  with  his  hands  as  though  he  were 
brushing  away  a  confusion  of  cobwebs,  then  burst  out :  "Look 


328  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

here,  I  don't  know  whether  you're  deaf  or  not — if  you  are  it 
won't  matter,  and  if  you  aren't  we'll  have  a  straight  talk  at 
last.  You  can't  move  until  someone  comes  in  to  move  you, 
and  that  may  be  a  long  while  yet.  You  aren't  strong  enough 
to  knock  me  down,  so  that  I'm  afraid  you'll  just  have  to  stay 
here  for  a  while  and  listen.  ...  Of  course  you  know  by  this 
time  who  I  am.  It's  no  use  your  pretending." 

Philip  paused  and  looked,  but  the  old  man  had  not  stirred 
at  all.  His  hands  were  still  pressed  into  his  knees,  his  eyes 
staring  through  his  glasses,  and,  as  his  delicate  breathing  rose 
and  fell,  one  black  button  shone  in  the  lamplight  and  faded 
again.  This  immobility  seemed  to  stir  more  profoundly 
Philip's  anger. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  your  granddaughter  Katherine,  and 
of  course  you  hate  it  and  me  too.  You're  just  as  selfish  as  all 
the  others,  and  more  too,  I  daresay.  And  you  think  you  can 
frighten  me  by  just  doing  nothing  except  showing  you  dislike 
me.  But  you  won't  frighten  me — no,  never — so  you  needn't 
expect  it.  I'm  going  to  marry  Katherine  and  take  her  right 
away  from  you  all,  so  you  may  as  well  make  up  your  mind 
to  it." 

Philip,  flushed  in  the  face  and  half  expecting  that  the  walls 
of  the  house  would  fall  in  upon  him,  paused — but  there  was 
no  change  at  all  in  Mr.  Trenchard's  attitude,  unless  possibly 
one  shining  hand  was  driven  a  little  more  deeply  into  the 
knee.  There  was  perhaps  some  unexpected  pathos  in  the  in- 
tensity of  those  pressing  fingers,  or,  perhaps,  Philip's  des- 
perate challenge  was,  already,  forsaking  him.  At  any  rate 
he  went  on. 

"Why  can't  you  like  me?  I'm  ready  enough  to  like  you. 
I'm  not  a  bad  kind  of  man,  and  I'll  be  very  good  to  Kather- 
ine, no  one  could  ever  be  better  to  anyone  than  I'll  be  to  her. 
But  why  can't  we  lead  our  own  life?  You're  an  old  man — 
you  must  have  seen  a  lot  in  your  time — you  must  know  how 
times  alter  and  one  way  of  thinking  gives  way  to  another. 
You  can't  keep  a  family  together  by  just  refusing  to  listen  to 


THE  MIEEOK  329 

anything  or  anybody.  I  know  that  you  love  Katherine,  and 
if  you  love  her  really,  surely  you'll  want  her  to  lead  her  own 
life.  Your  life's  nearly  over — why  should  you  spoil  hers 
for  her?" 

He  paused  again,  but  now  he  could  not  tell  whether  the 
eyes  were  closed  or  no.  Was  the  old  man  sleeping?  or  was 
he  fiercely  indignant  ?  or  was  he  satirical  and  smiling  ?  or  was 
he  suddenly  going  to  cry  aloud  for  Rocket  ? 

The  uncertainty  and  the  silence  of  the  room  worked  ter- 
ribly upon  Philip's  nerves.  He  had  begun  courageously,  but 
the  sound  of  his  voice  in  all  that  damp  stillness  was  most  un- 
pleasant. Moreover,  he  was  a  poor  kind  of  fellow,  because  he 
always,  even  in  the  heat  of  anger,  thought  a  friend  better  than 
an  enemy.  He  was  too  soft  to  carry  things  through. 

"He  really  does  look  very  old,"  he  thought  now,  looking 
at  the  thin  legs,  the  bones  in  the  neck,  the  lines  on  the  fore- 
head of  the  poor  gentleman,  "and  after  all  it  can't  be  pleasant 
to  lose  Katherine." 

"If  you'd  only,"  he  went  on  in  a  milder  voice,  "give  me  a 
chance.  Katherine's  much  too  fond  of  all  of  you  to  give  you 
up  simply  because  she's  married.  She  isn't  that  sort  at  all. 
You  knew  that  she'd  marry  some  day.  All  the  trouble  has 
come  because  you  don't  like  me.  But  have  you  ever  tried  to  ? 
I'm  the  sort  of  man  that  you've  got  to  like  if  you're  to  see  the 
best  of  me.  I  know  that's  my  fault,  but  everyone  has  to  ha 73 
allowances  made  for  them." 

Philip  paused.  There  was  a  most  deadly  stillness  in  the 
room.  Philip  felt  that  even  the  calf-bound  Thackeray  and  the 
calf-bound  Waverley  novels  behind  the  glass  screens  in  the 
large  book-case  near  the  door  were  listening  with  all  their 
covers. 

Not  a  movement  came  from  the  old  man.  Philip  felt  as 
though  he  were  addressing  the  whole  house — 

He  went  on.  "When  you  were  young  you  wanted  to  go 
on  with  your  generation  just  as  we  do  now.  You  believed 
that  there  was  a  splendid  time  coming,  and  that  none  of  the 


330  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

times  that  had  ever  been  would  be  so  fine  as  the  new  one.  You 
didn't  want  to  think  the  same  as  your  grandfather  and  be 
tied  to  the  same  things.  Can't  you  remember?  Cant  you 
remember?  Don't  you  see  that  it's  just  the  same  for  us?" 

Still  no  movement,  no  sound,  no  quiver  of  a  shadow  in  the 
Mirror. 

"I'll  be  good  to  her,  I  swear  to  you,  I  don't  want  to  do 
anyone  any  harm.  And  after  all,  what  have  I  done  ?  I  was 
rude  one  Sunday  night,  Henry  drank  too  much  once,  I  don't 
always  go  to  church,  I  don't  like  the  same  books — but  what's 
all  that?  isn't  everyone  different,  and  isn't  it  a  good  thing 
that  they  are?" 

He  bent  forward— "I  know  that  you  can  do  a  lot  with  them 
all.  Just  persuade  them  to  help,  and  be  agreeable  about 
it.  That's  all  that's  wanted — just  for  everyone  to  be  agree- 
able. It's  such  a  simple  thing,  really." 

He  had  touched  Mr.  Trenchard's  knee.  With  that  touch 
the  whole  room  seemed  to  leap  into  hostile  activity.  He  had, 
quite  definitely,  the  impression  of  having  with  one  step 
plunged  into  a  country  that  bristled  with  foes  behind  every 
bush  and  tree.  The  warmth  of  the  old  man's  knees  seemed 
to  fling  him  off  and  cast  him  out. 

Old  Mr.  Trenchard  raised  his  head  with  a  fierce,  furious 
.gesture  like  the  action  of  a  snake  striking. 

In  a  voice  that  was  not  silvery  nor  clear,  but  shaking  and 
thick  with  emotion,  he  said : 

"I  warn  you,  young  man — if  you  dare  to  take  my  grand- 
daughter away — you'll  kill  me!" 

Before  Philip  could  do  more  than  start  back  with  a  gesture 
of  dismay,  the  door  had  opened  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  and 
Aunt  Aggie  had  entered. 

Meanwhile  there  was  Henry. 

Important  events  had  occurred  in  Henry's  life  since  that 
Sunday  when  he  had  told  Millie  about  Philip's  terrible  past 


THE  MIRROR  331 

and  had  shared  in  that  disastrous  supper.  He  was  to  go  to 
Cambridge. 

This  important  decision  had  apparently  followed  on  Aunt 
Aggie's  disclosure  of  his  evil  courses,  therefore  it  may  be 
considered  that  Philip  was,  in  this  as  in  the  other  recent 
events  in  the  Trenchard  history,  responsible.  Quite  suddenly 
George  Trenchard  had  lifted  up  his  head  and  said :  "Henry, 
you're  to  go  to  Cambridge  next  October.  I  think  that  Jesus 
College  shall  bear  the  burden  of  your  company.  I  believe 
that  there  are  examinations  of  a  kind  that  you  must  pass 
before  they  will  admit  you.  I  have  written  for  papers." 

This  declaration  should,  of  course,  have  been  enough  to 
fling  Henry  into  a  wild  ecstasy.  Before  the  arrival  of 
Philip  it  would  undoubtedly  have  done  so.  Now,  however, 
he  seemed  to  himself  to  have  progressed  already  so  far 
beyond  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.  To  have  troubles  and 
experiences  so  deep  and  weighty  as  compared  with  anything 
that  anyone  at  Cambridge  could  possibly  have  known,  and 
that  to  propose  that  he  should  go  there  was  very  little  less 
than  an  insult.  .  .  .  And  for  this  he  blamed  Philip. 

Nevertheless  the  papers  arrived.  He  was,  in  reality,  no 
fool,  and  the  Cambridge  'Little  Go'  is  not  the  most  difficult 
examination  under  the  sun.  At  the  end  of  May  he  went  up 
to  Cambridge.  If  one  may  judge  by  certain  picturesque 
romances  concerned  with  University  life  and  recently  popular 
amongst  us,  one  is  to  understand  that  that  first  vision  of  a 
University  thrills  with  all  the  passion  of  one's  first  pipe, 
one's  first  beer  and  one's  first  bedmaker  or  scout,  as  the  case 
may  be.  The  weather  was  chill  and  damp.  He  was  placed 
in  a  tiny  room,  where  he  knocked  his  head  against  the  fine 
old  rafters  and  listened  to  mice  behind  the  wainscot.  His 
food  was  horrible,  his  bedmaker  a  repulsive  old  woman,  and 
the  streets  were  filled  with  young  men,  who  knew  not  Henry 
and  pushed  him  into  the  gutter.  He  hated  everyone  whom 
he  saw  at  the  examination,  from  the  large,  red-faced  gentle- 
man who  watched  him  as  he  wrote,  down  to  the  thin  and 


332  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

uncleanly  youth  who  bit  his  nails  at  the  seat  next  to  his  own. 
He  walked  down  Petty  Cury  and  hated  it;  he  strolled  up 
the  King's  Parade  and  hated  that  too.  He  went  to  King's 
College  Chapel  and  heard  a  dull  anthem,  was  spoken  to  by 
an  enormous  porter  for  walking  on  the  grass  and  fell  over 
the  raised  step  in  the  gateway.  He  was  conceited  and  lonely 
and  hungry.  He  despised  all  the  world,  and  would  have  given 
his  eyes  for  a  friend.  He  looked  forward  to  his  three  years 
in  this  city  ("The  best  time  of  your  life,  my  boy.  What  I 
would  give  to  have  those  dear  old  days  over  again")  with  in- 
expressible loathing. 

He  knew,  however,  three  hours  of  happiness  and  exul- 
tation. This  joy  came  to  him  during  the  English  Essay — 
the  last  paper  of  the  examination.  There  were  four  subjects 
from  which  he  might  choose,  and  he  selected  something  that 
had  to  do  with  'The  Connection  between  English  History 
and  English  Literatura'  Of  facts  he  had  really  the  vaguest 
notion.  He  seemed  to  know,  through  hearsay  rather  than  per- 
sonal examination,  that  Oliver  Cromwell  was  something 
responsible  for  'The  Pilgrim's  Progress',  that  that  dissolute 
monarch  Charles  II.  had  to  do  with  the  brillance  and  audacity 
of  Mr.  Congreve  and  Mr.  Wycherley,  that  Queen  Anne  in 
some  way  produced  Pope  and  Robespierre,  Wordsworth,  and 
Queen  Victoria,  Charlotte  Mary  Yonge  (he  had  cared  very 
deeply  for  'The  Daisy  Chain'),  and  our  Indian  Empire  Mr. 
Rudyard  Kipling.  He  knew  it  all  as  vaguely  as  this,  but  he 
wrote — he  wrote  divinely,  gloriously  ecstatically,  so  that  the 
three  hours  were  but  as  one  moment  and  the  grim  nudity  of 
the  examination-room  as  the  marbled  palaces  of  his  own  fan- 
tastic dreams.  Such  ecstasy  had  he  known  when  he  began 
that  story  about  the  man  who  climbed  the  ricketty  stairs. 
Such  ecstasy  had  been  born  on  that  day  when  he  had  read  the 
first  page  of  the  novel  about  Forests — such  ecstasy  had,  he 
knew  in  spite  of  itself,  received  true  nourishment  from  that 
enemy  of  their  house,  Philip. 

His  spirits  fell  when  he  came  to  himself,  saw  how  many 


THE  MIRROR  333 

other  gentlemen  had  also  written  essays  and  with  what  in- 
difference and  languor  the  red-faced  gentleman  hustled  his 
pages  in  amongst  all  the  others.  Nevertheless,  he  did  come 
out  of  that  examination-room  with  some  conviction  as  to  the 
course  that  his  future  life  would  take,  and  with  a  kindness, 
almost  a  tenderness,  towards  this  grey  town  that  was  going 
to  allow  him,  even  to  command  him,  to  write  essays  for  the 
next  three  years.  With  Henry  one  mood  succeeded  another 
as  rapidly  as,  in  his  country,  wet  weather  succeeds  fine. 

He  returned  to  Garth  in  an  outrageous  temper.  His  main 
feeling  now  was  that  Philip  had  spoiled  Cambridge  for  him. 
Philip  and  his  immoral  life  'got  in'  between  all  that  he  saw 
and  dropped  a  misty  veil,  so  that  he  could  think  of  nothing 
in  the  way  that  tradition  had  taught  him.  He  had  always 
had  a  great  respect  for  tradition. 

Then  as  the  weeks  passed  by  he  was  made  increasingly 
unhappy  by  the  strange  condition  in  which  he  found  the 
family.  He  was,  at  heart,  the  crudest  sentimentalist,  and  his 
sentimentalism  had  been  fed  by  nothing  so  richly  as  by  the 
cherished  conviction  that  the  George  Trenchards  were  the 
most  united  family  in  England.  He  had  always  believed  this, 
and  had  never,  until  now,  considered  the  possibility  of  any 
division.  But  what  now  did  he  find?  His  mother  stern, 
remote,  silent,  Millie  irritable,  uneasy  and  critical,  Aunt 
Aggie  always  out  of  temper,  Aunt  Betty  bewildered  and  tact- 
less, even  his  father  disturbed  and  unlike  himself.  And 
Katie?  .  .  .  He  could  not  have  believed  that  six  months 
would  change  anyone  so  utterly. 

Instead  of  the  reliable,  affectionate  and  stolid  sister  who 
had  shared  with  him  all  her  intimacies,  her  plans,  her  regrets, 
her  anticipations,  he  beheld  now  a  stranger  who  gave  him 
no  intimacies  at  all,  avoided  him  and  hid  from  him  her  un- 
doubted unhappiness.  It  was  true  of  him  now  as  it  had  ever 
been  that  'he  would  give  his  life  to  make  Katherine  happy,' 
but  how  was  he  to  do  anything  for  her  when  she  would  tell 


334  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

him  nothing,  when  she  treated  him  like  a  stranger,  and  then 
blamed  him  for  his  hostilities. 

If  it  had  been  clear  that  now,  after  these  months  of  her 
engagement,  she  no  longer  loved  Philip,  the  matter  would 
have  been  simple.  He  would  have  proceeded  at  once  to  his 
father  and  told  him  all  that  he  knew  about  Philip's  Moscow 
life.  But  she  did  love  Philip — more,  yes,  far  more,  than 
ever — nothing  could  be  clearer  than  that.  This  love  of 
Katherine's  burned,  unceasingly,  in  Henry's  brain.  With 
no  other  human  being  could  he  have  felt,  so  urgently,  the 
flame  of  it  but  Katherine,  whom  he  had  known  as  he  had 
known  himself,  so  sure,  so  undramatic,  so  happily  sexless,  as 
she  had  always  seemed  to  him,  that  it  should  be  she  whom 
this  passion  had  transformed !  From  that  moment  when  he 
had  seen  her  embrace  of  Philip,  his  imagination  had  harried 
him  as  a  dog  harries  a  rabbit,  over  the  whole  scale  of  the 
world.  .  .  .  Love,  too,  that  he  had  believed  was  calm, 
domestic,  friendly,  reassuring,  was  in  truth  unhappy,  rebel- 
lious, devastating.  In  the  very  heart  of  her  unhappiness 
seemed  to  be  the  fire  of  her  love.  This  removed  her  from 
him  as  though  he  had  been  flung  by  it  into  a  distant  world. 
And,  on  every  side,  he  was  attacked  by  this  same  thing. 
There  were  the  women  whom  he  had  seen  that  night  with 
Philip,  there  was  the  woman  who  had  given  Philip  a  son 
in  Russia,  there  was  here  a  life,  dancing  before  him,  now  near 
him,  now  far  away  from  him,  intriguing  him,  shaming  him, 
stirring  him,  revolting  him,  removing  him  from  all  his 
family,  isolating  him  and  yet  besetting  him  with  the  company 
of  wild,  fantastic  figures. 

He  walked  the  Glebeshire  roads,  spoke  to  no  one,  hated 
himself,  loathed  Philip,  was  lashed  by  his  imagination, 
aroused  at  last  to  stinging  vitality,  until  he  did  not  know 
whither  to  turn  for  safety. 

He  came  up  to  London  for  the  Faunder-Trenchard  wed- 
ding. Late  in  the  afternoon  that  had  seen  Philip's  conver- 


THE  MIRROR  335 

sation  with  old  Mr.  Trenchard  Henry  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  to  discover  that  tea  was  over  and  no  one  was  there. 
He  looked  into  the  tea-pot  and  saw  that  there  was  nothing 
there  to  cheer  him.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  Russia,  in 
which  country  there  were  apparently  perpetual  samovars  boil- 
ing upon  ever-ready  tables.  This  made  him  think  of  Philip — 
then,  turning  at  some  sudden  sound,  there  was  Aunt  Aggie 
in  the  doorway. 

Aunt  Aggie  looked  cold  in  spite  of  the  warm  weather,  and 
she  held  her  knitting-needles  in  her  hand  defiantly,  as  though 
she  were  carrying  them  to  reassure  a  world  that  had  unjustly 
accused  her  of  riotous  living. 

"It's  simply  rotten,"  said  Henry,  crossly.  "One  comes  in 
expecting  tea  and  it's  all  over.  Why  can't  they  have  tea  at 
the  ordinary  time  ?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  settling  herself  comfortably 
into  the  large  arm-chair  near  the  fireplace.  "Thinking  of 
yourself,  Henry,  of  course.  Learn  to  be  unselfish  or  you'll 
never  be  happy  in  this  world.  I  remember  when  I  was  a 
girl-" 

"Look  here!"  Henry  interrupted.  "Has  Philip  been  here 
this  afternoon?" 

"Mr.  Mark  ?    Yes,  he  has." 

"Did  he  come  to  tea  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  dug  her  needles  viciously  into  an  innocent  ball  of 
wool. 

"Yes,"  said  Henry  fiercely,  "that's  why  they  had  it  early, 
I  suppose — and  why  I  don't  get  any — of  course." 

"All  I  know  is,"  continued  Aunt  Aggie,  "that  he's  put  your 
grandfather  into  the  most  dreadful  state.  He  was  alone  in 
here  with  him  it  seems,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  he's 
said  to  him,  but  it  upset  him  dreadfully.  I've  not  been  well 
myself  to-day,  and  to  have  your  grandfather — " 

But  Henry  again  interrupted. 


336  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"What  did  he  want  coming  to-day  at  all  for  ?  He  might 
have  waited." 

Aunt  Aggie,  however,  did  not  like  to  be  interrupted  when 
she  was  discussing  her  health,  so  she  said  now  sharply :  "Just 
look  at  your  hands,  Henry — Why  can't  you  keep  them  clean. 
I  should  have  thought  going  up  to  Cambridge — " 

"Oh !  I'm  all  right,"  he  answered,  impatiently.  "Anyway, 
I  wonder  what  he  told  grandfather." 

"Why,  what  could  he  have  told  him?"  said  Aunt  Aggie, 
eagerly,  looking  up. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — nothing — Only  .  .  .  Oh,  Rocket,  ask 
them  to  make  some  fresh  tea.  Let  me  have  it  in  here." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Henry,"  said  Rocket,  removing  the  tea-pot 
with  an  air  of  strong  disapproval. 

"Really,  Henry!"  Aunt  Aggie  exclaimed.  "And  simply 
for  yourself!  Why,  even  though  I've  had  the  most  trying 
headache  all  day,  I'd  never  venture  to  give  so  much  trouble 
simply  for  myself." 

"Oh,  I  daresay  you'll  have  some  when  it  comes,"  Henry  an- 
swered, carelessly — then,  pursuing  his  thoughts,  he  continued : 
"Well,  he  won't  be  coming  back  to  Garth  with  us — that's  one 
comfort." 

"Oh,  but  he  is!"  cried  Aunt  Aggie,  excitedly.  "He  is! 
Your  mother's  asked  him  to  come  back  with  us,  and  he's  ac- 
cepted. I  simply  don't  understand  it.  Your  mother  dislikes 
him  as  much  as  the  rest  of  us  do,  and  why  she  should  ask 
him!  It  can't  be  for  poor  Katie's  sake.  She's  miserable 
enough  when  he's  at  Garth.  I'm  sure  if  things  go  on  like  this 
much  longer  I  shall  go  and  take  a  little  house  by  myself  and 
live  alone.  I'd  really  rather  than  all  this  unpleasantness." 

This  threat  did  not  apparently  alarm  Henry  very  greatly, 
for,  bursting  out  suddenly,  he  cried :  "It's  beastly !  perfectly 
beastly !  There  we've  all  got  to  sit  watching  him  make  Katie 
miserable.  I  won't  stand  it !  I  won't  stand  it !" 

"Why  you !"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  scornfully.  "How  can  you 
prevent  it  ?  You're  only  a  boy !" 


THE  MIRROR  337 

This  epithet  stung  Henry  to  madness.  Ah,  if  Aunt  Aggie 
only  knew  all,  she'd  see  that  he  was  very  far  from  being  'only 
a  boy' — if  she  only  knew  the  burden  of  secret  responsibility 
that  he'd  been  bearing  during  all  these  weeks.  He'd  keep 
secret  no  longer — it  was  time  that  everyone  should  know  the 
kind  of  man  to  whom  Katherine  was  being  sacrificed.  He 
turned  round  to  his  aunt,  trembling  with  anger  and  excite- 
ment. 

"You  talk  like  that !"  he  cried,  "but  you  don't  know  what  I 
know!" 

"What  don't  I  know  ?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"About  Philip — this  man  Mark — He's  wicked,  he's  awful, 
he's — abominable !" 

"Well,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  dropping  her  needles.  "What's 
he  done?" 

"Done!"  Henry  exclaimed,  sinking  his  voice  into  a  horri- 
fied and  confidential  whisper.  "He's  been  a  dreadful  man. 
Before,  in  Russia,  there's  nothing  he  didn't  do.  I  know,  be- 
cause there's  a  friend  of  mine  who  knew  him  very  well  out 
there.  He  lived  a  terribly  immoral  life.  He  was  notorious. 
He  lived  with  a  woman  for  years  who  wasn't  his  wife,  and 
they  had  a  baby.  There's  nothing  he  didn't  do — and  he  never 
told  father  a  word."  Henry  paused  for  breath. 

Aunt  Aggie's  cheeks  flushed  crimson,  as  they  always  did 
when  anyone  spoke,  before  her,  of  sexual  matters. 

At  last  she  said,  as  though  to  herself:  "I  always  knew  it — 
I  always  knew  it.  You  could  see  it  in  his  face.  I  warned 
them,  but  they  wouldn't  listen." 

Henry  meanwhile  had  recovered  himself.  He  stood  there 
looking  into  the  Mirror.  It  was  a  tragic  moment.  He  had 
done,  after  all,  what,  all  these. months,  he  had  determined  to 
prevent  himself  from  doing.  He  saw  now,  in  a  flash  of  ac- 
cusing anger,  what  would  most  certainly  follow.  Aunt  Aggie 
would  tell  everyone.  Philip  would  be  dismissed — Katherine's 
heart  would  be  broken. 

He  saw  nothing  but  Katherine,  Katherine  whom  he  loved 


338  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

with  all  the  ardour  of  his  strange  undisciplined  quixotic  soul. 
He  saw  Katherine  turning  to  him,  reproaching  him,  then,  hid- 
ing her  grief,  pursuing  her  old  life,  unhappy  for  ever  and 
ever.  (At  this  stage  in  his  development,  he  saw  everything 
in  terms  of  'for  ever  and  for  ever'.)  It  never  occurred  to  him 
that  if  Philip  were  expelled  out  of  the  Trenchard  Eden  Kath- 
erine might  accompany  him.  No,  she  would  remain,  a  heart- 
broken monument  to  Henry's  lack  of  character. 

He  scowled  at  his  aunt,  who  sat  there  thrilled  and  indig- 
nant and  happy. 

"I  say !"  he  burst  out.  "Of  course  you  mustn't  tell  any- 
body!" 

Aunt  Aggie  nodded  her  head  and  her  needles  clicked. 

"It  must  remain  with  wiser  and  older  heads  than  yours, 
Henry,  as  to  what  ought  to  be  done  .  .  ."  then  to  herself 
again :  "Ah,  they'll  wish  they'd  listened  to  me  now." 

"But  I  say,"  repeated  Henry,  red  in  the  face,  standing  in 
front  of  her,  "you  really  mustn't.  I  told  it  you  as  a  secret." 

"A  secret!  When  everyone  in  London  knows!  A  nice 
thing  they'll  all  think — letting  Katherine  marry  a  man  with 
such  a  reputation!" 

"No,  but  look  here — you  wouldn't  have  known  anything  if 
I  hadn't  told  you — and  you  mustn't  do  anything — you  mustn't 
really.  Katie  loves  him — more  than  ever — and  if  she  were  to 
lose  him — " 

"Much  better  for  her  to  lose  him,"  said  Aunt  Aggie  firmly, 
"than  for  her  to  be  miserable  for  life — much  better.  Besides, 
think  of  the  abominable  way  the  man's  deceived  us!  Why,, 
he's  no  better  than  a  common  thief !  He — " 

"Perhaps  he  hasn't  deceived  her,"  interrupted  Henry. 
"Perhaps  he's  told  her—" 

"Told  her!"  cried  his  aunt.  "And  do  you  really  suppose 
that  Katherine  would  stay  for  one  moment  with  a  man  whose 
life — My  dear  Henry,  how  little  you  know  your  sister.  She 
certainly  has  changed  lately  under  that  dreadful  man's  in- 


THE  MIRROR  339 

fluence,  but  she's  not  changed  so  fundamentally  as  to  forget 
all  principles  of  right  and  wrong,  all  delicate  feeling." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Henry  slowly,  "I  don't  believe  we  do 
know  Katie  a  bit.  Girls  are  so  queer.  You  think  they  don't 
know  a  thing  about  anything,  and  really  they  know  more  than 
you  do.  ...  Anyway,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  "you  mustn't 
say  a  word.  You  mustn't  really.  You  must  give  me  your 
promise." 

But  before  Aunt  Aggie  could  do  more  than  shake  her  head 
there  was  an  interruption.  The  door  opened  and  Philip  en- 
tered. Aunt  Aggie  at  once  rose  from  her  chair,  and,  with  a 
rustle  and  a  quiver,  without  looking  at  the  young  man,  with- 
out speaking  left  the  room. 

Henry  remained,  staring  at  Philip,  confused  and  be- 
wildered, furious  with  himself,  furious  with  Aunt  Aggie, 
furious  with  Philip.  Yes,  now  he  had  ruined  Katherine's 
life — he  and  Philip  between  them.  That  he  should  not  con- 
sider it  possible  that  Katherine  should  have  her  life  in  her 
own  hands  to  make  or  mar  was  characteristic  of  the  Trenchard 
point  of  view. 

Philip,  conscious  of  Aunt  Aggie's  exit,  said:  "I  was  just 
going — I  came  back  to  fetch  a  book  that  I  left  here — one  that 
Katherine  lent  me." 

Henry  made  his  usual  lurching  movement,  as  though  he 
would  like  to  move  across  the  room  and  behave  naturally,  but 
was  afraid  to  trust  himself. 

"That  it?"  he  asked,  pointing  gloomily  to  a  novel  on  the 
table  near  him. 

"That's  it,"  said  Philip. 

"Hullo !"  cried  Henry,  looking  at  it  more  closely.  "That's 
mine!"  It  was  indeed  the  novel  that  had  to  do  with  forests 
and  the  sea  and  the  liberty  of  the  human  soul,  the  novel  that 
had  been  to  Henry  the  first  true  gospel  of  his  life  and  that 
had  bred  in  him  all  the  troubles,  distrusts  and  fears  that  a 
true  gospel  is  sure  to  breed.  Henry,  when  the  original  book 


340  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

had  been  delivered  back  to  Mudie's  had  with  ceremony  and 
worship  bought  a  copy  for  himself.  This  was  his  copy. 

"It's  my  book,"  Henry  repeated,  picking  it  up  and  holding 
it  defiantly. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Philip  stiffly.  "Of  course  I  didn't 
know.  Katherine  spoke  as  though  it  were  hers." 

"Oh,  you  can  take  it,"  Henry  said,  frowning  and  throwing 
it  back  on  the  table. 

Philip  looked  at  him,  then  suddenly,  laughing,  walked  over 
to  him,  "What's  the  matter,  Henry?"  he  said  catching  his 
arm.  "I'll  have  it  out  with  the  lot  of  you,  I  swear  I  will. 
You,  none  of  you,  say  anything — you  all  just  look  as  though 
you  didn't  know  me.  You  yourself,  these  last  months,  have 
looked  as  though  you'd  like  to  stick  a  dagger  into  my  back. 
Now,  really,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what  I've  done. 
I'm  engaged  to  Katherine,  but  I've  behaved  as  decently  about 
it  as  I  can.  I'm  not  going  to  take  her  away  from  you  all  if  I 
can  help  it.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that,  now  that  I  see 
how  much  she  cares  for  you  all.  I've  done  my  best  ...  I 
really  have.  Now,  what  is  it  ?" 

Henry  was,  in  spite  of  himself,  touched  by  this  appeal.  He 
glanced  at  Philip's  face  and  thought,  again  in  spite  "of  him- 
self, what  a  nice  one  it  was.  A  horrible  suspicion  came  to 
him  that  he  liked  Philip,  had  always  liked  him,  and  this 
abominable  whisper,  revealing  treachery  to  all  his  principles, 
to  all  his  traditions,  to  all  his  moral  code,  above  all  to  Kath- 
erine, infuriated  him.  He  tore  his  arm  away. 

"If  you  want  to  know,"  he  cried,  "it's  because  I  think 
you're  a  beast,  because  you're  not  fit  to  touch  Katie — because 
— because — I  know  all  about  you !" 

Philip  stood  there;  for  a  moment  a  smile  trembled  to  his 
lips,  then  was  dismissed. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  said,  sternly. 

"Mean  ?"  cried  Henry,  allowing  himself  to  be  carried  along 
on  a  tide  of  indignation  that  seemed,  in  some  way,  in  spite  of 
itself,  to  be  quite  genuine.  "Mean  ?  I  mean  that  I've  known 


THE  MIRROR  341 

for  weeks  &  ad  weeks  the  kind  of  man  you  are !  I  know  what 
you  did  in  Moscow  for  years  and  years,  although  you  may 
look  so  quiet.  Do  you  think  you're  the  sort  of  man  to  marry 
Katherine  ?  Why,  you  aren't  fit  to  touch  her  hand." 

"Would  you  mind,"  said  Philip  quietly,  "just  telling  me 
exactly  to  what  you  are  referring  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Henry,  dropping  his  voice  and  beginning  to 
numble,  "you  had — you  had  a  mistress — in  Moscow  for  years, 
and  everyone  knew  it — and  you  had  a  baby — and  it  died. 
Everyone  knows  it." 

"Well,"  said  Philip  quietly,  "and  what  then  ?" 

"Oh,  you're  going  to  deny  it,  I  suppose,"  said  Henry,  "but 
I  tell  you—" 

"No,"  said  Philip,  "I'm  not  going  to  think  of  denying  it. 
I  don't  know  where  you  got  your  information  from,  but  it's 
perfectly  true.  At  the  same  time  I  can't  see  that  it's  your 
particular  business  or,  indeed,  anyone's.  The  affair's  abso- 
lutely done  with — old  history." 

"No,  I  suppose,"  cried  Henry,  "it  doesn't  seem  to  be  any- 
thing to  you.  You  don't  know  what  a  decent  family  thinks 
of  such  things.  It's  nothing  to  you,  of  course.  But  we  hap- 
pen to  care  for  Katherine  more  than — more  than — you  seem 
to  know.  And — and  she's  everything  to  us.  And  we're  not 
going  to  let  her — to  let  her  marry  someone  who's  notoriously 
a — a  bad  man.  No,  we're  not.  It  may  seem  odd  to  you,  but 
we're  not." 

Philip  was  standing  now  beneath  the  Mirror,  in  front  of 
the  fireplace,  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"My  dear  Henry,"  he  said,  "it's  extremely  pleasant  to  me 
to  hear  that  you're  so  fond  of  Katherine — but  has  it  ever  oc- 
curred to  any  of  you  that  she  may  possibly  have  a  life  of  her 
own,  that  she  isn't  going  to  be  dependent  on  all  of  you  for 
ever?  .  .  .  And  as  for  you,  Henry,  my  boy,  you're  a  nice 
character,  with  charming  possibilities  in  it,  but  I'm  afraid 
that  it  can't  be  denied  that  you're  a  bit  of  a  prig — and  I  don'l 


342  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

know  that  Cambridge  is  exactly  the  place  to  improve  that 
defect." 

Philip  could  have  said  nothing  more  insulting.  Henry's 
face  grew  white  and  his  hands  trembled. 

His  voice  shaking,  he  answered:  "You  can  say  what  you 
like.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  if  you  don't  give  up  Katherine 
I'll  tell  Father  at  once  the  sort  of  man  you  are — tell  them  all. 
And  then  you'll  have  to  go." 

At  Philip's  heart  there  was  triumph.  At  last  the  crisis 
was  threatened  for  which  he  had,  all  this  time,  been  longing. 
He  did  not  for  an  instant  doubt  what  Katherine  would  do. 
Ah !  if  they  drove  him  away  she  was  his,  his  for  ever !  and, 
please  God,  they  would  never  see  Glebeshire  again ! 

He  was  triumphant,  but  he  did  not  give  Henry  his  mood. 

"You  can  do  what  you  please,  my  son,"  he  answered,  scorn- 
fully. "Tell  'em  all.  But  brush  your  hair  next  time  you 
come  down  to  the  drawing-room  for  tea.  Even  in  Russia  we 
do  that.  You  don't  know  how  wild  it  looks.  .  .  .  Now,  just 
hand  me  that  book  and  I'll  clear  out.  Meanwhile  don't  be  so 
childish.  You're  going  to  Cambridge,  and  really  must  grow 
up.  Take  my  advice.  Brush  your  hair,  put  on  a  clean  collar, 
and  don't  be  a  prig." 

Henry,  white  with  passion,  saw  nothing  but  Philip's  face. 
Philip  the  enemy  and  scorn  of  the  house,  Philip  the  ravisher 
of  Katherine,  Philip  author  of  all  evil  and  instigator  of  all 
wickedness. 

He  picked  up  the  book  and  flung  it  at  Philip's  head. 

"There's  your  book!"  he  screamed.  "Take  it!  ...  You 
— you  cad!" 

The  book  crashed  into  the  centre  of  the  mirror. 

There  was  a  tinkle  of  falling  glass,  and  instantly  the  whole 
room  seemed  to  tumble  into  pieces,  the  old  walls,  the  old 
prints  and  water-colours,  the  green  carpet,  the  solemn  book- 
cases, the  large  arm-chairs — and  with  the  room,  the  house,  and 
with  the  house  Westminster,  Garth,  Glebeshire,  Trenchard 
and  Trenchard  tradition — all  represented  now  by  splinters 


THE  MIRROR  343 

and  fragments  of  glass,  by  broken  reflections  of  squares  and 
stars  of  green  light,  old  faded  colours,  deep  retreating 
shadows. 

"Oh!"  cried  Henry!     "Oh!" 

"Thank  Heaven !"  laughed  Philip  triumphantly.  "One  of 
you've  done  something  at  last !" 


CHAPTER  III 

ANNA  AND  MES.  TEENCHAED 

THAT  return  to  Garth  was,  for  everyone  concerned,  a 
miserable  affair.  It  happened  that  the  fine  summer 
weather  broke  into  torrents  of  rain.  As  they  drove  up  to  the 
old  house  they  could  hear  the  dripping  of  water  from  every 
nook  and  corner.  As  Henry  lay  awake  that  first  night  the 
hiss  and  spatter  of  the  rain  against  his  window  seemed  to  have 
a  personal  grudge  against  him.  "Ah — you  fool — s-s-s — you 
s-s-s-illy  a-s-s-s.  Put  your  pride  in  your  pocket — s-s-s-illy 
a-s-s." 

When  he  slept  he  dreamt  that  a  deluge  had  descended  upon 
the  earth,  that  all  were  drowned  save  he,  and  that  he  was  sup- 
ported against  the  flood  only  by  the  floor  of  the  house  that 
swayed  and  swayed.  Suddenly  with  a  crash  in  it  fell — he 
awoke  to  find  that  he  had  tumbled  out  of  bed  on  to  the  carpet. 

For  days  a  steaming,  clammy  mist,  with  a  weight  and  a 
melancholy  peculiar  to  Glebeshire,  hung  over  the  world. 

They  lived  in  hot  steam,  their  hair  was  damp  and  their 
hands  chill.  It  was  poor  days  for  the  beginning  of  August. 
Rebekah  was  in  a  bad  temper ;  no  one  knew  what  it  was  that 
had  displeased  her,  but  she  had  a  wicked  nephew  who  wrote, 
at  certain  times,  to  plead  for  money,  and  always  for  many 
days  after  receiving  a  letter  from  him  she  was  displeased  with 
everyone.  She  walked  now  like  a  tragedy  queen  in  her  tall 
white  cap  and  stiff  white  apron;  only  Mrs.  Trenchard  could 
be  expected  to  deal  with  her,  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  had  other 
things  that  occupied  her  mind. 

Henry's  eye  was  now  forever  on  his  mother.  He  waited 

344 


ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  345 

for  the  moment  when  Aunt  Aggie  would  speak,  that  quite 
inevitable  moment. 

He  thought  that  he  had  never  truly  seen  his  mother  before. 
In  old  days,  in  that  strange,  dim  world  before  Philip's 
arrival,  she  had  seemed  to  him  someone  to  be  cherished,  to  be 
protected,  someone  growing  a  little  old,  a  little  cheerless,  a 
little  lonely.  Now  she  was  full  of  vigour  and  dominion. 
When  she  said  to  him:  "Did  you  put  on  that  clean  under- 
clothing this  morning,  Henry?"  instead  of  sulking  and  an- 
swering her  question  with  an  obvious  disgust,  he  assured  her 
earnestly  that  he  had  done  so.  He  admired  now  her  strong 
figure,  her  pouring  of  tea  at  breakfast,  her  sharp  rebukes  to 
the  gardener,  and  her  chiding  of  Uncle  Tim  when  he  entered 
the  drawing-room  wearing  muddy  boots.  Yes,  he  admired  his 
mother.  So  he  trembled  at  the  thought  of  her  cold,  ironic 
anger  when  she  heard  of  Philip's  past. 

On  the  day  after  their  arrival  at  Garth  he  told  Millie  what 
he  had  done.  He  had  long  ago  realised  that,  since  her  re- 
turn from  Paris,  Millie  had  been  a  quite  unaccountable 
creature.  It  was  not  only  her  French  education.  He  at- 
tributed this  change  also  to  the  dire  influence  of  Philip.  He 
noticed  with  disgust  that  she  behaved  now  as  though  she  were 
a  woman  of  the  world,  implying,  at  the  same  time,  that  he 
was  still  an  uncleanly  and  ignorant  schoolboy.  He  knew  that 
she  would  be  indignant  and  scornful  at  his  indiscretion, 
nevertheless  he  was  driven  by  loneliness  to  confide  in  her. 

They  walked  together  to  the  village  that  they  might  fetch 
the  afternoon  post,  otherwise  unrescued  until  the  following 
morning. 

Millie  was  in  a  bad  temper. 

"I  never  knew  anyone  walk  in  the  mud  as  you  do,  Henry. 
Your  boots  are  filthy  in  a  minute.  You  walk  into  every  pud- 
dle you  can  see.  You  always  did." 

The  trees  hung  ghostly  out  of  the  mist  like  mocking 
scarecrows.  Every  once  and  again  moisture  from  somewhere 
trickled  down  between  Henry's  neck  and  collar. 


B46  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Look  here,  Millie,"  he  said  gloomily,  "I  want  your 
advice." 

"You've  done  something  silly  again,  I  suppose,"  she  an- 
swered loftily. 

Glancing  shyly  at  her,  he  thought  that  she  was  looking  very 
pretty.  Strange,  the  number  of  new  things  that  he  was  no- 
ticing now  about  the  family.  But  she  was  pretty — a  great 
deal  prettier  than  Katherine;  in  fact,  the  only  pretty  one  of 
the  family.  He  liked  her  soft  hair,  so  charming  under  her 
large  flopping  garden-hat,  her  little  nose,  her  eyes  black  and 
sparkling,  the  colour  of  her  cheeks,  her  tall  and  slim  body 
that  carried  her  old  cotton  dress  so  gracefully.  Everything 
about  her  was  right  and  beautiful  in  a  way  that  no  other 
members  of  the  family  could  achieve.  Katherine  was  always 
a  little  clumsy,  although  since  her  engagement  to  Philip 
she  had  taken  more  care.  .  .  .  There  was  something  light 
and  lovely  about  Millie  that  no  care  would  produce  if  you 
had  not  got  it.  He  was  proud  of  her,  and  would  have 
liked  that  she  should  be  nice  to  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I've  been  an  awful  fool.  .  .  .  I've  told 
Aunt  Aggie  about  Philip." 

Millie  stopped  and  stood,  staring  at  him. 

"You've  told  Aunt  Aggie  ?"  she  cried  furiously. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  blushing,  as  he  always  did  when  he 
was  scolded. 

"Oh !  you  silly  ass !"  She  was  so  deeply  exasperated  that 
she  could  scarcely  speak. 

"You  SILLY  ass!  I  might  have  guessed  it — And  yet  all 
the  time  I'd  hoped  that  at  least.  .  .  .  And  Aunt  Aggie  of  all 
people!  .  .  .  and  now  Katherine  and  mother! 

"Oh,  you  chattering,  blundering  idiot !" 

She  walked  forward  at  a  furious  pace;  he  plunged  after 
her. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  "when  you've  done  cursing 
you'll  be  cooler.  I  know  I'm  an  ass,  but  Aunt  Aggie  irri- 
tated me  and  got  it  all  out  of  me.  Aunt  Aggie's  the  devil !" 


ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  347 

"Of  course  she  is,  and  of  course  you'll  choose  her  out  of 
everyone,  when  she  hates  Philip  and  would  wring  his  neck 
to-morrow  if  her  hands  were  strong  enough." 

"Well,  I  hate  him  too,"  said  Henry. 

"Oh,  no  you  don't,"  answered  Millie,  "you  think  you  do. 
You're  proud  of  thinking  you  hate  him,  and  you  lose  your 
temper  because  he  laughs  at  you,  and  then  you  throw  books 
at  his  head,  but  you  don't  really  hate  him." 

"How  do  you  know  I  throw  books  at  his  head  ?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  suppose  we,  any  of  us,  believed  that  story 
abc '-t  you  and  Philip  having  a  kind  of  game  in  the  drawing- 
room  just  for  fun.  .  .  .  Father  was  furious  about  it,  and  said 
the  mirror  was  unreplaceable,  and  the  sooner  you  went  to 
Cambridge  and  stopped  there  the  better — and  I  think  so 
too.  Oh!  you've  just  spoilt  everything!" 

"It's  only  about  Katie  I'm  thinking,"  he  answered  dog- 
gedly. "It  may,  after  all,  be  true  what  Aunt  Aggie  said, 
that  it  will  be  much  better  for  her  in  the  end  for  the  thing 
to  be  broken  off,  even  though  it  hurts  her  now." 

"Better  for  her!"  cried  Millie  scornfully.  "Don't  you 
know  that,  however  deeply  she  loved  Philip  when  it  all  be- 
gan, it's  nothing  to  the  way  that  she  loves  him  now?  .  .  . 
Of  course  now  there'll  be  a  scene.  Philip  will  be  turned  off 
for  ever  and —  She  broke  off,  then  said,  staring  at  Henry : 
"Supposing,  after  all,  Katie  were  to  go  with  him!" 

Henry  shook  his  head.  "She'd  never  do  that,  however 
much  Philip  is  to  her.  Why,  it  would  mean  giving  up  Garth 
and  us  for  ever  I  Mother  would  never  forgive  her !  After 
all,  she's  only  known  Philip  six  months,  and  I  heard  her  say 
the  other  day  in  London  she  loves  Garth  more  than  ever. 
And  even  if  Mother  did  forgive  her,  in  the  end  she'd  never 
be  able  to  come  back  here  as  one  of  us  again.  You  and  I 
will  love  her  whatever  she  does,  but  Mother  and  Father  and 
the  aunts  ...  I  believe  it  would  simply  kill  them — " 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Millie  slowly,  "that  Mother  thinks 
that.  I  believe  she's  half  afraid  of  Philip  running  off  and 


348  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

then  Katie  following  him.  That's  why  she's  been  so  nice  to 
him  lately,  although  she  can't  bear  him.  Of  course  if  she 
knew  all  this  that  we  know  he'd  have  to  go — she  wouldn't 
have  him  in  the  house  five  minutes,  and  Father  would  dq 
what  Mother  told  him  of  course.  And  now  that  you've  been 
an  idiot  enough  to  tell  Aunt  Aggie,  it's  all  up.  .  .  .  The 
only  hope  i  that  Katie  will  chuck  it  all  and  follow  him !" 

"What !"  cried  Henry  aghast.     "You'd  like  her  to !" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Millie,  "there  isn't  anything  com- 
pared with  the  sort  of  thing  Katie  feels  for  Philip — Home 
and  the  family?  Why,  they've  all  got  to  go  in  these  days! 
That's  what  people  like  the  aunts  and  fathers  and  the  rest 
of  the  old  fogeys  round  here  don't  see.  But  they'll  have  to 
see  soon.  .  .  .  But  mother's  cleverer  than  they  are.  At 
least  she  is  about  Katie,  because  she  loves  her  so  much." 

"My  word!"  said  Henry,  in  the  husky  voice  that  always 
came  when  he  admired  anybody.  "You've  changed  an  awful 
lot  lately,  Millie." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  have,*-  she  answered,  complacently. 

They  talked  very  little  after  that,  for  the  reason  that  in 
the  village  Henry  bought  Millie  some  bulls-eyes,  because  he 
felt  in  a  confused  kind  of  way  that  he  admired  her  more  than 
he  had  ever  done. 

Millie  had  also  another  reason  for  silence ;  she  was  thinking 
very  hard.  During  those  few  days  in  London  she  had  lived 
in  a  world  of  thrilling  expectation.  She  hoped  that  every 
moment  would  announce  the  elopement  of  Katherine  and 
Philip.  After  her  conversation  with  her  sister,  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  this  elopement  was  inevitable.  On  every 
occasion  of  the  opening  of  a  door  in  the  London  house  her 
heart  had  leapt  in  her  breast.  She  had  watched  the  lovers 
with  eyes  that  were  absorbed.  Ah !  if  only  they  would  take 
her  more  thoroughly  into  their  confidence,  would  put  them- 
selves into  her  hands.  She'd  manage  for  them — she'd  ar- 
range everything  most  beautifully.  This  was  the  most  ro- 
mantic hour  of  her  life.  .  .  . 


ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  349 

But  now,  after  Henry's  revelation,  Millie's  thoughts  were 
turned  upon  her  mother.  Of  course  her  mother  would  expel 
Philip — then  there  was  a  danger  that  Philip  would  return 
to  that  living,  fascinating  creature  in  Russia,  the  mysterious, 
smiling  Anna.  Millie  had  created  that  figure  for  herself 
now,  had  thought  and  wondered  and  dreamed  of  her  so 
often  that  she  saw  her  bright  and  vivid  and  desperately  dan- 
gerous, thin  and  dark  and  beautiful  against  a  background 
of  eternal  snow. 

There  they  were — her  mother  and  Anna  and  Katherine, 
with  Philip,  poor  Philip,  in  between  them  all.  It  was  truly 
a  wonderful  time  for  Millie,  who  regarded  all  this  as  a  pro- 
logue to  her  own  later  dazzling  history.  She  did  not  know 
that,  after  all,  she  blamed  Henry  very  desperately  for  his 
foolishness.  The  thrilling  crisis  was  but  brought  the  nearer. 

Meanwhile  the  first  thing  that  she  did  was  to  inform  Kath- 
erine of  Henry's  treachery. 

Katherine  received  the  news  very  quietly. 

"And  now,"  said  Millie  eagerly,  "what  will  you  do,  Katie 
darling  ?" 

"Wait  and  see  what  Mother  does,"  said  Katie. 

"She'll  be  simply  horrified,"  said  Millie.  "If  she  sends 
Philip  away  and  forbids  you  ever  to  see  him  again,  what  will 
you  do  ?" 

But  Katherine  would  not  answer  that. 

"Let's  wait,  Millie  dear,"  she  said  gently. 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  him  go  ?"  Millie  pursued,  "not  back 
to  Russia  and  that  awful  woman." 

"I  trust  Philip,"  Katherine  said. 

"You  can  never  trust  a  man,"  Millie  said  gravely.  tcL 
know.  One  of  our  girls  in  Paris  was  let  in  terribly.  She — " 

Katherine  interrupted  her. 

"Philip  isn't  like  anyone  else,"  she  said. 

And  Millie  was  dismissed. 

But  when  Katherine  was  alone  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
letter.  This  was  it: 


350  THE  CREEN  MIRROR 


CABLING  RACHEL, 
Do  you  remember  that  a  long  time  ago,  one  day  when 
I  came  to  see  you  in  London,  you  said  that  if  I  were  ever  in 
trouble  I  was  to  tell  you  and  you'd  understand  anything? 
Well,  I'm  in  trouble  now  —  bad  trouble.  Things  are  grow- 
ing worse  and  worse,  and  it  seems  now  that  whichever  way  I 
act,  something's  got  to  be  hopelessly  spoiled.  To  any  or- 
dinary outsider  it  would  mean  such  a  small  business,  but 
really  it's  the  whole  of  my  life  and  of  other  people's  too. 
You're  not  an  outsider,  and  so  I  know  that  you'll  under- 
stand. I  can't  tell  you  more  now  —  I  don't  know  what 
will  happen,  how  I'll  act,  or  anything.  But  I  shall  know 
soon,  and  then  I  shall  want  your  help,  dreadfully.  I'm 
sure  you'll  help  me  when  I  ask  you  to. 

You  do  like  Philip  better  now,  don't  you  ?  I  know  that 
you  didn't  at  first,  but  that  was  because  you  didn't  really 
know  him.  7  didn't  really  know  him  either  then,  but  I 
know  him  now,  and  I  love  him  twice  as  much  as  ever  I 
did. 

This  will  seem  a  silly  letter  to  you,  but  I  want  to  feel 
that  I've  got  someone  behind  me.  Millie's  a  dear,  but  she 
isn't  old  enough  to  understand.  Don't  be  frightened  by 
this.  If  anything  happens  I'll  write  at  once. 

Your  loving 

K." 

Meanwhile  the  family  life  proceeded,  outwardly,  on  its 
normal  way.  August  was  always  a  month  of  incident  —  pic- 
nics to  Rafiel  and  St.  Lowe  and  Damen  Head,  sometimes  long 
expeditions  to  Borhaze  or  Pelynt,  sometimes  afternoons  in 
Pendennis  or  Rothin  Woods.  There  were  expeditions  in 
which  relations  from  Polchester  or  Clinton,  or  friends  from 
Liskane  and  Polewint  shared,  and,  in  the  cover  of  them,  the 
family  supported  quite  successfully  the  Trenchard  tradition 
of  good  manners,  unruffled  composure,  and  abundant  leisure. 
As  members  of  a  clan  so  ancient  and  self-reliant  that  no 
enemy,  however  strong,  however  confident,  could  touch  them, 


ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  351 

they  sat  about  their  luncheon  baskets  on  the  burning  sand, 
whilst  the  fat  pony  cropped  in  the  dark  hedges  above  the 
beach  and  the  gulls  wheeled  and  hovered  close  at  hand. 

This  was  well  enough,  but  the  long  summer  evenings  be- 
trayed them.  In  earlier  days,  when  relationships  were  so  sure 
and  so  pleasant  that  the  world  swept  by  in  a  happy  silence, 
those  summer  evenings  had  been  lazy,  intimate  prologues  to 
long  nights  of  undisturbed  sleep.  They  would  sit  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  windows  open  to  the  garden  scents  and  the 
salt  twang  of  the  sea,  moths  would  flutter  round  the  lamps, 
Millie  would  play  and  sing  a  little  at  a  piano  that  was  never 
quite  in  tune.  Aunt  Betty  would  struggle  happily  with  her 
"Demon  Patience,"  George  Trenchard  would  laugh  at  them 
for  half-an-hour,  and  then  slip  away  to  his  study.  Mrs. 
Trenchard  and  Aunt  Aggie  would  knit  and  discuss  the  vil- 
lage, Henry  would  lie  back  in  an  arm-chair,  his  nose  deep 
in  a  book,  Katherine  would  be  at  anybody's  service — the  min- 
utes would  fly,  then  would  come  Rebekah  with  hot  milk- 
for  some  and  toast-and-water  for  others,  there  would  be 
prayers,  and  then  "good-night,  ma'am".  "Good-night,  sir", 
from  the  three  maids,  the  cook  and  Rebekah,  then  candles 
lighted  in  the  hall,  then  climbing  slowly  up  the  stairs,  with 
clumsy  jokes  from  Henry  and  last  words  from  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard, such  as  "Don't  forget  the  Williams'  coming  over  to- 
morrow, Katie  dear,"  or  "Some  of  that  quinine  for  your  cold, 
Aggie,  I  suggest,"  or  "I've  put  the  new  collars  on  your  bed, 
Henry,"  then  the  closing  of  doors,  then  a  happy  silence,  ut- 
terly secure.  That  had  been  the  old  way. 

Outwardly  the  August  nights  of  this  year  resembled  the  old 
ones — but  the  heart  of  them  beat  with  panic  and  dismay. 
Philip  had  thought  at  first  that  it  was  perhaps  his  presence 
that  caused  the  uneasiness,  and  one  evening  he  complained  of 
a  headache  and  went  up  to  his  room  after  dinner.  But  he 
learnt  from  Katherine  that  his  absence  had  merely  empha- 
sised everything.  They  must  be  all  there — it  would  never 
do  to  show  that  there  was  anything  the  matter.  Millie  played 


352  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

the  piano,  Aunt  Betty  attempted  her  "Patience"  with  her 
usual  little  "Tut-tut's"  and  "Dear  me's."  Mrs.  Trenchard 
and  Aunt  Aggie  sewed  or  knitted,  but  now  the  minutes 
dragged  in  endless  procession  across  the  floor,  suddenly  some- 
one would  raise  a  head  and  listen,  Henry,  pretending  to  read 
a  book,  would  stare  desperately  in  front  of  him,  then  noticing 
that  Aunt  Aggie  watched  him,  would  blush  and  hold  his  book 
before  his  face ;  with  relief,  as  though  they  had  escaped  some 
threatening  danger,  they  would  greet  the  milk,  the  'toast-and- 
water',  the  maids  and  the  family  prayers. 

There  was  now  no  lingering  on  the  staircase. 

There  are  many  families,  of  course,  to  whom  the  rebellion' 
or  disgrace  of  one  of  its  members  would  mean  but  little,  so 
slightly  had  been  felt  before  the  dependence  of  one  soul 
upon  another.  But  with  the  Trenchards  that  dependence 
had  been  everything,  the  outside  world  had  been  a  fantastic 
show,  unreal  and  unneeded :  as  the  pieces  of  a  pictured  puzzle 
fit  one  into  another,  so  had  the  Trenchards  been  interwoven 
and  dependent  .  .  .  only  in  England,  perhaps,  had  such  a 
blind  and  superior  insularity  been  possible  .  .  .  and  it  may 
be  that  this  was  to  be,  in  all  the  records  of  history,  the  last 
of  such  a  kind — "Nil  nisi  bonum".  .  .  . 

To  Philip  these  summer  days  were  darkened  by  his  con- 
sciousness of  Mrs.  Trenchard.  When  he  looked  back  over 
the  months  since  he  had  known  her,  he  could  remember  no 
very  dramatic  conversation  that  he  had  had  with  her,  nothing 
tangible  anywhere.  She  had  been  always  pleasant  and  agree- 
able to  him,  and,  at  times,  he  had  tried  to  tell  himself  that, 
after  all,  he  might  ultimately  be  happy  'eaten  up  by  her,'  as 
Jonah  was  by  the  whale.  Then,  with  a  little  shiver,  he  knew 
the  truth — that  increasingly,  as  the  days  passed,  he  both  hated 
and  feared  her.  She  had  caught  his  will  in  her  strong  hands 
and  was  crushing  it  into  pulp. 

He  made  one  last  effort  to  assert  himself,  even  as  he  had 
tried  his  strength  against  Katherine,  against  Henry,  against 
Aunt  Aggie,  against  old  Mr.  Trenchard.  This  little  conver- 


ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  353 

sation  that  he  had  in  the  Garth  garden  with  Mrs.  Trenchard 
upon  one  of  those  lovely  summer  evenings  was  of  the  simplest 
and  most  undramatic  fashion.  Nevertheless  it  marked  the 
end  of  his  struggle;  he  always  afterwards  looked  back  upon 
those  ten  minutes  as  the  most  frightening  experience  of  his 
life.  Mrs.  Trenchard,  in  a  large  loose  hat  and  gauntleted 
gardening  gloves,  made  a  fine  cheerful,  reposeful  figure  as  she 
walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  long  lawn ;  she  asked  Philip 
to  walk  with  her ;  the  sun  flung  her  broad  flat  shadow  like  a 
stain  upon  the  bright  grass. 

They  had  talked  a  little,  and  then  he  had  suddenly,  with  a 
tug  of  alarm  at  his  heart,  determined  that  he  would  break 
his  chains.  He  looked  up  at  her  placid  eyes. 

"I  think,"  he  said — his  voice  was  not  quite  steady — "that 
Katherine  and  I  will  live  somewhere  in  the  North  after  our 
marriage.  Quite  frankly  I  don't  think  Glebeshire  suits  me." 

"And  Katie,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  smiling. 

"Katie  .  .  .  she — she'll  like  the  North  when  she's  tried 
it  for  a  little." 

"You'll  rob  us  of  her?" 

"Not  altogether,  of  course." 

"She'll  be  very  miserable  away  from  Glebeshire  .  .  .  very 
miserable.  I've  seen  such  a  nice  little  house — Colve  Hall — 
only  two  miles  from  here — on  the  Rafiel  road.  I  don't  think 
you  must  take  Katie  from  Glebeshire,  Philip." 

That  was  a  challenge.     Their  eyes  met.     His  dropped. 

"I  think  it  will  be  better  for  her  to  be  away  after  we  are 
married." 

"Why  ?     Do  you  hate  us  all  ?" 

He  coloured.  "I'm  not  myself  with  you.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  your  kind  of  life.  I've  tried — I  have  indeed 
— I'm  not  happy  here." 

"Aren't  you  selfish?  If  you  rob  Katie  of  everything — 
will  you  be  happy  then  ?" 

Yes,  that  was  it.  He  could  see  their  future  life,  Kather- 
ine, longing,  longing  to  return,  excited,  homesick ! 


354  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Although  he  did  not  look  up,  he  knew  that  she  was  smiling 
at  him. 

"You  are  very  young,  Philip,"  she  said.  "You  want  life 
to  be  perfect.  It  can't  be  that.  You  must  adapt  yourself. 
I  think  that  you  will  both  be  happier  here  in  Glebeshire — 
near  us." 

lie  would  have  broken  out,  crying  that  Katherine  was  his, 
not  theirs,  that  he  wanted  her  for  himself,  that  they  must  be 
free.  ...  Of  what  use  ?  That  impassivity  took  his  courage 
and  flattened  it  all  out  as  though  he  were  a  child  of  ten,  still 
ruled  by  his  mother. 

"Shall  we  go  in?"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard.  "It's  a  little 
cold." 

It  was  after  this  conversation  that  he  began  to  place  his 
hope  upon  the  day  when  his  Moscow  misdeeds  would  be  de- 
clared— that  seemed  now  his  only  road  to  freedom. 

Upon  one  lovely  summer  evening  they  sat  there  and  had, 
some  of  them,  the  same  thought. 

Millie,  slim  and  white,  standing  before  the  long  open  win- 
dow, stared  into  the  purple  night,  splashed  with  stars  and 
mysterious  with  tier-like  clouds.  She  was  thinking  of  Anna, 
of  all  that  life  that  Philip  had,  of  what  a  world  it  must  be 
where  there  are  no  laws,  no  conventions,  no  restraints.  That 
woman  now  had  some  other  lover,  she  thought  no  more,  per- 
haps, of  Philip — and  no  one  held  her  the  worse.  She  could 
do  what  she  would — how  full  her  life  must  be,  how  adventur- 
ous, packed  with  colour,  excitement,  battle  and  victory.  And, 
after  all,  it  might  be,  to  that  woman,  that  this  adventure 
meant  so  little  that  she  did  not  realise  it  as  an  adventure. 
Millie's  heart  rose  and  fell;  her  heart  hurt  her  so  that  she 
pressed  her  hand  against  her  frock.  She  wanted  her  own  life 
to  begin — at  once,  at  onca  Other  girls  had  found  the  begin- 
ning of  it  during  those  days  in  Paris,  but  some  English  re- 
straint and  pride — she  was  intensely  proud — had  held  her 
back.  But  now  she  was  on  fire  with  impatience,  with  long- 


ANNA  AND  MES.  TRENCHARD  355 

ing,  with  courage.  ...  As  she  stared  into  the  night  she 
seemed  to  see  the  whole  world  open,  like  a  shining  silver  plate, 
held  by  some  dark  figure  for  her  acceptance.  She  stretched 
out  her  hands. 

"Take  care  you  don't  catch  cold  by  that  open  window, 
Millie  dear,"  said  her  mother. 

Henry  also  was  thinking  of  Anna.  From  where  he  sat 
he  could,  behind  his  book,  raising  his  eyes  a  little,  see  Philip. 
Philip  was  sitting,  very  straight  and  solid,  with  his  short 
thick  legs  crossed  in  front  of  him,  reading  a  book.  He  never 
moved.  He  made  no  sound.  Henry  had,  since  the  day  when 
he  had  broken  the  mirror,  avoided  Philip  entirely.  He  did 
not  want  to  consider  the  man  at  all ;  of  course  he  hated  the 
man  because  it  was  he  who  had  made  them  all  miserable, 
and  yet,  had  the  fellow  never  loved  Katherine,  had  he  re- 
mained outside  the  family,  Henry  knew  now  that  he  could 
have  loved  him. 

This  discovery  he  had  made  exactly  at  the  moment  when 
that  book  had  fallen  crashing  into  the  mirror — it  had  been 
so  silly,  so  humiliating  a  discovery  that  he  had  banished  it 
from  his  mind,  had  refused  to  look  into  it  at  all. 

But  that  did  not  mean  that  he  did  not  contemplate  Philip's 
amazing  life.  He  contemplated  it  more  intensely  every  day. 
The  woman  had  all  the  mystery  of  invisibility,  and  yet  Henry 
thought  that  he  would  know  her  if  he  saw  her.  He  coloured 
her  according  to  his  fancy,  a  laughing,  tender  figure  who 
would  recognize  him,  did  she  meet  him,  as  the  one  man  in  the 
world  for  whom  she  had  been  searching. 

He  imagined  to  himself  ridiculous  conversations  that  he 
should  have  with  her.  He  would  propose  to  marry  her, 
would  declare,  with  a  splendid  nobility,  that  he  knew  of  her 
earlier  life,  but  that  "that  meant  nothing  to  him."  He  would 
even  give  up  his  country  for  her,  would  live  in  Russia, 
would  .  .  .  Then  he  caught  Philip's  eye,  blushed,  bent  to 
pull  up  his  sock,  said,  in  a  husky,  unconcerned  voice : 

"Do  play  something,  Millie.     Something  of  Mendelssohn." 


356  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Philip  also  was  thinking  of  Anna.  Through  the  pages  of 
his  stupid  novel,  as  though  they  had  been  of  glass,  he  saw  her 
as  she  had  last  appeared  to  him  on  the  platform  of  the  Mos- 
cow station.  She  had  been  wearing  a  little  round  black  fur 
hat  and  a  long  black  fur  coat,  her  cheeks  were  pale,  her  eyes 
mocking,  but  somewhere,  as  though  in  spite  of  herself,  there 
had  been  tenderness.  She  had  laughed  at  him,  but  she  had, 
for  only  a  moment  perhaps,  wished  that  he  were  not  going. 
It  was  that  tenderness  that  held  him  now.  The  evening, 
through  which  he  was  now  passing,  had  been  terrible — one  of 
the  worst  that  he  had  ever  spent — and  he  had  wondered 
whether  he  really  would  be  able  to  discipline  himself  to  that 
course  on  which  he- had  determined,  to  marry  Katherine  un- 
der the  Trenchard  shadow,  to  deliver  himself  to  Mrs.  Tren- 
chard,  even  as  the  lobster  is  delivered  to  the  cook.  And  so, 
with  this  desperation,  had  come,  with  increasing  force,  that 
memory  of  Anna's  tenderness. 

He  did  not  want  to  live  with  her  again,  to  renew  that  old 
life — his  love  for  Katherine  had,  most  truly,  blotted  out  all 
the  fire  and  colour  of  that  earlier  passion,  but  he  wanted — 
yes,  he  wanted  most  passionately,  to  save  his  own  soul. 

Might  it  not,  after  all,  be  true,  as  that  ghostly  figure  had 
urged  to  him,  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  escape  and  so 
carry  Katherine  after  him — but  what  if  she  did  not  come  ? 

He  heard  Mrs.  Trenchard's  voice  as  she  spoke  to  Millie, 
and,  at  that  sound,  he  resigned  himself  .  .  .  but  the  figure 
still  smiled  at  him  behind  that  glassy  barrier. 

Katherine  also  thought  of  Anna.  She  was  sitting  just 
behind  Aunt  Betty  watching,  over  the  old  lady's  shoulder, 
the  'Patience'. 

"There,"  said  Aunt  Betty,  "there's  the  ten,  the  nine,  the 
eight.  Oh !  if  I  only  had  the  seven !" 

"You  can  get  it,"  said  Katherine,  "if  you  move  that  six 
and  five." 

"How  stupid  I  am  1"  said  Aunt  Betty,  "thank  you,  my  dear, 
I  didn't  see." 


ANNA  AND  MKS.  TKENCHARD  357 

Katherine  saw  dancing  in  and  out  between  the  little  cards 
a  tiny  figure  that  was  yet  tall  and  strong,  moving  there  a  teas- 
ing, taunting  puppet,  standing  also,  a  motionless  figure,  away 
there,  by  the  wall,  watching,  with  a  cynical  smile,  the  room. 
Beneath  the  thin  hands  of  the  old  lady  the  cards  fluttered, 
shifted,  lay  with  their  painted  colours  on  the  shining  table, 
and,  in  accompaniment  with  their  movement,  Katherine's 
thoughts  also  danced,  in  and  out,  round  and  round,  chasing 
the  same  old  hopeless  riddle.  Sometimes  she  glanced  across 
at  her  mother.  Perhaps  already  Aunt  Aggie  had  told 
her.  .  .  .  Noj  she  had  not.  Her  mother's  calm  showed  that 
she,  as  yet,  knew  nothing.  Katherine,  like  the  others,  did 
not  doubt  what  her  mother  would  do.  She  would  demand 
that  the  engagement  should  be  broken  off;  they  would  all, 
ranged  behind  her  broad  back,  present  their  ultimatum — And 
then  what  would  Katherine  do  ?  ...  Simply,  sitting  there, 
with  her  fingers  fiercely  interlaced,  her  hands  pressed  against 
her  knee,  she  did  not  know.  She  was  exhausted  with  the 
struggle  that  had  continued  now  for  so  many  weeks,  and 
behind  her  exhaustion,  waiting  there,  triumphant  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  her  success,  was  her  rival. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  they  waited  there  came  to  them  all  the 
idea  that  the  hall  door  had  been  opened  and  gently  closed. 
They  all,  Mrs.  Trenchard,  Aunt  Aggie,  Millie,  Henry,  Kath- 
erine, started,  looked  up. 

"Did  someone  come  in  ?"  said  Mr3.  Trenchard,  in  her  mild 
voice.  "I  thought  I  heard  the  hall  door — Just  go  and  see, 
Henry." 

"I'll  go,"  said  Katherine  quickly. 

They  all  waited,  their  heads  raised.  Katherine  crossed 
the  room,  went  into  the  hall  that  glimmered  faintly  under  a 
dim  lamp,  paused  a  moment,  then  turned  back  the  heavy  han- 
dle of  the  door.  The  door  swung  back,  and  the  lovely  sum- 
mer night  swept  into  the  house.  The  stars  were  a  pattern  of 
quivering  light  between  the  branches  of  the  heavy  trees  that 
trembled  ever  so  gently  with  the  thrilling  sense  of  their  happi- 


358  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ness.  The  roses,  the  rich  soil  soaked  with  dew,  and  the  dis- 
tant murmur  of  the  stream  that  ran  below  the  garden  wall 
entered  the  house. 

Katherine  waited,  in  the  open  door,  looking  forward.  Then 
she  came  in,  shutting  the  door  softly  behind  her. 

Had  someone  entered?  Was  someone  there  with  her,  in 
the  half-light,  whispering  to  her:  "I'm  in  the  house  now — 
and  I  shall  stay,  so  long  as  I  please — unless  you  can  turn 
me  out." 

She  went  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

"There  was  no  one,"  she  said.     "Perhaps  it  was  Rebekah." 

"There's  rather  a  draught,  dear,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "my 
neuralgia  .  .  .  thank  you,  my  dear." 

"I've  done  it!"  cried  Aunt  Betty,  flushed  with  pleasure. 
"It's  come  out !  If  you  hadn't  shown  me  that  seven,  Katie, 
it  never  would  have  come!" 

Upon  the  very  next  afternoon  Aunt  Aggie  made  up  her 
mind.  After  luncheon  she  went,  alone,  for  a  walk;  she 
climbed  the  fields  above  the  house,  threaded  little  lanes  sunk 
between  high  hedges,  crossed  an  open  common,  dropped  into 
another  lane,  was  lost  for  awhile,  finally  emerged  on  the  hill 
above  that  tiny  Cove  known  as  Smuggler's  Button.  Smug- 
gler's Button  is  the  tiniest  cove  in  Glebeshire,  the  sand  of  it 
is  the  whitest,  and  it  has  in  the  very  middle  a  high  jagged 
rock  known  as  the  Pin.  Aunt  Aggie,  holding  an  umbrella, 
a  black  bonnet  on  her  head  and  an  old  shabby  rain-coat  flap- 
ping behind  her,  sat  on  the  Pin.  It  was  a  long  way  for  her 
to  have  come — five  miles  from  Garth — and  the  day  was 
windy,  with  high  white  clouds  that  raced  above  her  head  like 
angry  birds  ready  to  devour  her.  Aunt  Aggie  sat  there  and 
looked  at  the  sea,  which  approached  her  in  little  bowing  and 
beckoning  white  waves,  as  though  she  were  a  shrivelled  and 
pouting  Queen  Victoria  holding  a  drawing-room.  Once  and 
again  her  head  trembled,  as  though  it  were  fastened  insecurely 
to  her  body,  and  her  little  fat,  swollen  cheeks  shook  like  jelly. 


AOTTA  AND  MRS.  TREXCHARD  359 

Sometimes  she  raised  a  finger,  encased  in  a  black  glove,  and 
waved  it  in  the  air,  as  though  she  were  admonishing  the  uni- 
verse. 

She  clutched  vigorously  in  one  hand  her  umbrella. 

She  gazed  at  the  sea  with  passion.  This  love  for  the  sea 
had  been  a  dominant  power  in  her  ever  since  she  could  remem- 
ber, and  had  come  she  knew  not  whence.  It  had  been,  in 
earlier  days,  one  of  the  deep,  unspoken  bonds  between  herself 
and  Katherine,  and  it  had  been  one  of  her  most  active  criti- 
cisms of  Millie  that  'the  girl  cared  nothing  about  the  sea 
whatever1.  But  she,  Aunt  Aggie,  could  not  say  why  she 
loved  it.  She  was  no  poet,  and  she  knew  not  the  meaning  of 
the  word  'Enthusiasm'.  She  was  ashamed  a  little  of  her 
passion,  and,  when  she  had  walked  five  miles  to  Smuggler's 
Button  or  seven  miles  to  Lingard  Sand  'just  to  look  at  it', 
she  would  walk  stiffly  home  again,  would  give  no  answer  to 
those  who  asked  questions,  and,  if  driven  into  a  corner  would 
say  she  had  been  'just  for  a  walk.'  But  she  loved  it  in  all 
its  moods,  grave,  gay  and  terrible,  loved  it  even  when  it 
was  like  a  grey  cotton  garment  designed  for  the  poor  or  when 
it  slipped  into  empty  space  under  a  blind  and  soaking  mist. 
She  loved  the  rhythm  of  it,  the  indifference  of  it,  above  all, 
the  strength  of  it.  Here  at  last,  thank  God,  was  something 
that  she  could  admire  more  than  herself. 

She  had,  nevertheless,  always  at  the  back  of  her  mind  the 
thought  that  it  would  be  bad  for  it  if  it  knew  how  much  she 
thought  of  it ;  she  was  always  ready  to  be  disappointed  in  it, 
although  she  knew  that  it  would  never  disappoint  her — she 
was  grim  and  unbending  in  her  attitude  to  it  lest,  in  a  moment 
of  ecstasy,  she  should  make  cheap  of  her  one  devotion.  To-day 
she  did  not  actively  consider  it.  She  sat  on  the  rock  and 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  take  steps  'that  very  day.' 
Harriet,  her  sister-in-law,  had,  during  these  last  months,  often 
surprised  her,  but  there  would  be  no  question  of  her  action 
in  this  climax  of  the  whole  unfortunate  business. 

"The  young  man,"  as  she  always  called  Philip,  would  never 


360  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

show  his  face  in  Trenchard  circles  again.  Harriet  might 
forgive,  because  of  her  love  for  Katherine,  his  impertinence, 
his  conceit,  his  irreligion,  his  leading  Henry  into  profligacy 
and  drunkenness,  she  would  not — could  not — forgive  his 
flagrant  and  open  immorality,  an  immorality  that  had  ex- 
tended over  many  years.  As  she  thought  of  this  vicious  life 
she  gave  a  little  shiver — a  shiver  of  indignation,  of  resolu- 
tion, of  superiority,  and  of  loneliness.  The  world — the  gay, 
vital,  alluring  world,  had  left  her  high  and  dry  upon  that 
rock  on  which  she  was  sitting,  and,  rebuke  and  disapprove 
of  it  as  she  might,  it  cared  little  for  her  words. 

It  was,  perhaps,  for  this  reason  that  she  felt  strangely 
little  pleasure  in  her  approaching  triumph.  She  had  hated 
"the  young  man"  since  her  first  meeting  with  him,  and  at 
last,  after  many  months  of  patient  waiting,  the  means  had 
been  placed  in  her  hands  for  his  destruction.  .  .  .  Well,  she 
did  not  know  that  she  cared  to-day  very  greatly  about  it. 
She  was  old,  she  was  tired,  she  had  neuralgia  in  one  side  of 
her  face,  there  was  a  coming  headache  in  the  air.  Why  was 
it  that  she,  who  had  always  held  so  steadily  for  right,  whose 
life  had  been  one  long  struggle  after  unselfishness,  who  had 
served  others  from  early  morning  until  late  at  night,  should 
now  find  no  reward,  but  only  emptiness  and  old  age  and  frus- 
tration? She  had  not  now  even  the  pleasure  of  her  bitter- 
nesses. They  were  dust  and  ashes  in  her  mouth. 

She  resolved  that  at  once,  upon  that  very  afternoon,  she 
would  tell  Harriet  about  Philip — and  then  suddenly,  for  no 
reason,  with  a  strange  surprise  to  herself,  she  did  a  thing 
that  was  quite  foreign  to  her;  she  began  to  cry,  a  desolate 
trickling  of  tears  that  tasted  salt  in  her  mouth,  that  were  shed, 
apparently,  by  some  quite  other  person. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  she  turned  slowly  and  went  home  that 
that  same  Woman  who  had  encountered  life,  had  taken  it  all 
and  tasted  every  danger,  now,  watching  her,  laughed  at  her 
for  her  wasted,  barren  days.  .  .  . 

By  the  time,  however,  that  she  reached  Garth  she  had 


AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  361 

recovered  her  spirits ;  it  was  the  sea  that  had  made  her  melan- 
choly. She  walked  into  the  house  with  the  firm  step  of 
anticipated  triumph.  She  went  up  to  her  bedroom,  took  off 
her  bonnet,  washed  her  face  and  hands,  peeped  out  on  to  the 
drive  as  though  she  expected  to  see  someone  watching  there, 
then  came  down  into  the  drawing-room. 

She  had  intended  to  speak  to  her  sister-in-law  in  private. 
It  happened,  however,  that,  on  going  to  the  tea-table,  she 
discovered  that  the  tea  had  been  standing  for  a  considerable 
period,  and  nobody  apparently  intended  to  order  any  more — 
at  the  same  time  a  twinge  in  her  left  jaw  told  her  that  it  had 
been  foolish  of  her  to  sit  on  that  rock  so  long. 

Then  Philip,  who  had  the  unfortunate  habit  of  trying  to 
be  friendly  at  the  precisely  wrong  moment,  said,  cheerfully: 

"Been  for  a  walk  all  alone,  Aunt  Aggie?" 

She  always  hated  that  he  should  call  her  Aunt  Aggie. 
To-day  it  seemed  a  most  aggravated  insult. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "You've  had  tea  very  early." 

"George  wanted  it,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  who  was  writing 
at  a  little  table  near  a  window  that  opened  into  the  sunlit 
garden.  "One  never  can  tell  with  you,  Aggie,  what  time 
you'll  like  it — never  can  tell,  surely." 

There!  as  though  that  weren't  directly  charging  her  with 
being  a  trouble  to  the  household.  Because  they'd  happened 
to  have  it  early ! 

"I  call  it  very  unfair — "  she  began  nibbling  a  piece  of 
bread  and  butter. 

But  the  unfortunate  Philip  gaily  continued:  "When  we 
are  married,  Aunt  Aggie,  and  you  come  to  stay  with  us,  you 
shall  have  tea  just  when  you  like." 

He  was  laughing  at  her,  he  patronised  her !  He  dared — ! 
She  trembled  with  anger. 

"I  shall  never  come  and  stay  with  you,"  she  said. 

"Aunt  Aggie !"  cried  Katherine,  who  was  sitting  near  her 
mother  by  the  window. 

"No,  never!"  Aunt  Aggie  answered,  her  little  eyes  flash- 


362  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ing  and  her  cheeks  shaking.     "And  if  I  had  my  way  you 
should  never  be  married !" 

They  all  knew  then  that  at  last  the  moment  had  come. 
Henry  started  to  his  feet  as  though  he  would  escape,  Kather- 
ine  turned  towards  her  mother,  Philip  fixed  his  eyes  gravely 
upon  his  enemy — only  Mrs.  Trenchard  did  not  pause  in  her 
writing.  Aunt  Aggie  knew  then  that  she  was  committed.  She 
did  not  care,  she  was  glad  if  only  she  could  hurt  Philip,  that 
hateful  and  intolerable  young  man. 

Her  hands  trembled,  her  rings  making  a  tiny  clatter  against 
the  china ;  she  saw  only  her  sister-in-law  and  Philip. 

Philip  quietly  said : 

"Why  do  you  hope  that  Katherine  and  I  will  never  marry, 
Aunt  Aggie  ?" 

"Because  I  love  Katherine — because  I — we  want  her  to 
make  a  happy  marriage.  Because  if  she — knew  what  I 
know  she  would  not  marry  you." 

"My  dear  Aggie!"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  softly,  from  the 
writing-table — but  she  stayed  her  pen  and  waited,  with  her 
head  turned  a  little,  as  though  she  would  watch  Katherine's 
face  without  appearing  to  do  so. 

"And  what  do  you  know,"  pursued  Philip  quietly,  "that 
would  prevent  Katherine  from  marrying  me  ?" 

"I  know,"  she  answered  fiercely,  the  little  gold  cross  that 
hung  round  her  throat  jumping  against  the  agitation  of  her 
breast,  "that  you — that  you  are  not  the  man  to  marry  my 
niece.  You  have  concealed  things  from  her  father  which, 
if  he  had  known,  would  have  caused  him  to  forbid  you  the 
house." 

"Oh I   I   say!"   cried  Henry,   suddenly  jumping  to  his 
feet 
,     "Well,"  pursued  Philip,  "what  are  these  things  ?" 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  wondering  whether  Henry  had 
had  sufficient  authority  for  his  statements.  Philip  of  course 
would  deny  everything — but  she  had  now  proceeded  too  far 
to  withdraw. 


ANNA  AND  MRS.  TRENCHARD  363 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  "that  you  lived  in  Russia  with 
a  woman  to  whom  you  were  not  married — lived  for  some 
years,  and  had  a  child.  This  is,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  com- 
mon talk.  I  need  scarcely  add  that  I  had  not  intended  to 
bring  this  disgraceful  matter  up  in  this  public  fashion.  But 
perhaps  after  all  it  is  better.  You  have  only  yourself  to 
blame,  Mr.  Mark,"  she  continued,  "for  your  policy  of  secrecy. 
To  allow  us  all  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  these  things,  to 
allow  Katherine — but  perhaps,"  she  asked,  "you  intend  to 
deny  everything?  In  that  case — " 

"I  deny  nothing,"  he  answered.  "This  seems  to  me  a  very 
silly  manner  of  discussing  such  a  business."  He  addressed 
his  words  then  to  Mrs.  Trenchard.  "I  said  nothing  about 
these  things,"  he  continued,  "because,  quite  honestly,  I  could 
not  see  that  it  was  anyone's  affair  but  my  own  and  Kather- 
ine's.  I  told  Katherine  everything  directly  after  we  were 
engaged." 

At  that  Aunt  Aggie  turned  upon  her  niece. 

"You  knew,  Katherine?  You  knew — all  these  disgrace- 
ful— these — "  Her  voice  broke.  "You  knew  and  you  con- 
tinued your  engagement  ?" 

"Certainly,"  answered  Katherine  quietly.  "Whatever  life 
Philip  led  before  he  knew  me,  was  no  business  of  mine.  It 
was  good  of  him  to  tell  me  as  he  did,  but  it  was  not  my  affair. 
And  really,  Aunt  Aggie,"  she  continued,  "that  you  could 
think  it  right  to  speak  like  this  before  us  all — to  interfere — " 

Her  voice  was  cold  with  anger.  They  had  none  of  them 
ever  before  known  this  Katherine. 

Aunt  Aggie  appealed  to  her  sister-in-law. 

"Harriet,  if  I've  been  wrong  in  mentioning  this  now,  I'm 
sorry.  Katherine  seems  to  have  lost  her  senses.  I  would 
not  wish  to  condemn  anyone,  but  to  sit  still  and  watch  whilst 
my  niece,  whom  I  have  loved,  is  given  to  a  profligate — " 

Katherine  stood,  with  the  sunlight  behind  her;  she  looked 
at  her  aunt,  then  moved  across  the  room  to  Philip  and  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 


364  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

They  all  waited  then  for  Mrs.  Trenchard;  they  did  not 
doubt  what  she  would  say.  Katherine,  strangely,  at  that 
moment  felt  that  she  loved  her  mother  as  she  had  never  loved 
her  before.  In  the  very  fury  of  the  indignation  that  would 
be  directed  against  Philip  would  be  the  force  of  her  love  for 
her  daughter. 

This  pause,  as  they  all  waited  for  Mrs.  Trenchard  to  speak, 
was  weighted  with  the  indignation  that  they  expected  from 
her. 

But  Mrs.  Trenchard  laughed:  "My  dear  Aggie:  what  a 
scene !  really  too  stupid.  As  you  have  mentioned  this,  I  may 
say  that  I  have  known — these  things — about  Philip  for  a  long 
time.  But  I  said  nothing  because — well,  because  it  is  really 
not  my  business  what  life  Philip  led  before  he  met  us.  Per- 
haps I  know  more  about  young  men  and  their  lives,  Aggie, 
than  you  do." 

"You  knew!"  Henry  gasped. 

"You've  known!"  Aggie  cried. 

Katherine  had,  at  the  sound  of  her  mother's  voice,  given  her 
one  flash  of  amazement :  then  she  had  turned  to  Philip,  while 
she  felt  a  cold  shudder  at  her  heart  as  though  she  were  some 
prisoner  suddenly  clapt  into  a  cage  and  the  doors  bolted. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  "Mr.  Seymour  came  a  long 
time  ago  and  told  me  things  that  he  thought  I  ought  to  know. 
I  said  to  Mr.  Seymour  that  he  must  not  do  such  things,  and 
that  if  I  ever  spoke  of  it  to  Philip  I  should  give  him  his  name. 
I  disapprove  of  such  things.  Yes,  it  was  Mr.  Seymour — I 
think  he  never  liked  you,  Philip,  because  you  contradicted 
him  about  Russia.  He's  a  nice,  clever  boy,  but  I  daresay  he's 
wrong  in  his  facts.  .  .  ."  Then,  as  they  still  waited  in  si- 
lence, "I  really  think  that's  all,  Aggie.  You  must  forgive 
me,  dear,  but  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  your  business.  Kath- 
erine is  over  age,  you  know,  and  in  any  case  it  isn't  quite  nice 
in  the  drawing-room — and  really  only  because  your  tea  was 
cold,  Aggie  dear." 


ANNA  AND  MKS.  TRENCHARD  365 

"You've  known  .  .  .  you'll  do  nothing,  Harriet?"  Aggie 
gasped. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  looked  at  them  before  she  turned  back 
to  her  writing-table. 

"You  can  ring  for  some  fresh  tea  if  you  like,"  she  said. 

But  for  a  moment  her  eyes  had  caught  Philip's  eyes.  They 
exchanged  the  strangest  look.  Hers  of  triumph,  sarcastic, 
ironic,  amazingly  triumphant,  his  of  a  dull,  hopeless  aban- 
donment and  submission. 

Her  attack  at  last,  after  long  months  of  struggle,  had  suc- 
ceeded. He  was  beaten.  She  continued  her  letter. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  WILD  NIGHT 

TEN"  minutes  later  Katherine  and  Philip  were  alone  in 
the  garden.  There  were  signs  that  thevgorgeous  sum- 
mer afternoon  was  to  be  caught  into  thunder.  Beyond  the  gar- 
den-wall a  black  cloud  crept  toward  the  trees,  and  the  sunlight 
that  flooded  the  lawn  seemed  garish  now,  as  though  it  had 
been  painted  in  shrill  colours  on  to  the  green;  the  air  was 
intensely  hot ;  the  walls  of  the  house  glittered  like  metal. 

They  stood  under  the  great  oak  bobbing  in  front  of  them. 

"Well,"  said  Philip  at  last,  "that's  the  end,  Katie  dear— 
your  mother's  a  wonderful  woman." 

Katherine  was  silent.     He  went  on : 

"That  was  my  last  hope.  I  suppose  I'd  been  counting  on 
it  more  than  I  ought.  You'd  have  come  with  me,  I  know, 
if  they'd  turned  me  out  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Your  mother's  a 
wonderful  woman,  I  repeat."  He  paused,  looked  into  her 
eyes,  seemed  to  be  startled  by  the  pain  in  them.  "My  dear, 
don't  mind.  She  only  wants  to  keep  you  because  she  can't 
get  on  without  you — and  I  shall  settle  down  all  right  in  a  bit. 
What  a  fuss,  after  all,  we've  been  making." 

Katherine  said:  "Tell  me,  Phil,  have  there  been  times, 
lately,  in  the  last  week,  when  you've  thought  of  running 
away,  going  back  to  Russia  ?  Tell  me  honestly." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "there  have — many  times.  But  I 
always  waited  to  see  how  things  turned  out.  And  then  to- 
day when  the  moment  did  come  at  last,  I  saw  quite  clearly 
that  I  couldn't  leave  you  ever — that  anything  was  better 
than  being  without  you — anything — So  that's  settled." 

366 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  367 

"And  you've  thought,"  Katherine  pursued  steadily,  "of 
what  it  will  be  after  we're  married.  Mother  always  wanting 
me.  Your  having  to  be  in  a  place  that  you  hate.  And  even 
if  we  went  to  live  somewhere  else,  of  Mother  always  keeping 
her  hand  on  us,  never  letting  go,  never  allowing  you  to  be 
free,  knowing  about  Anna — their  all  knowing — you've  faced 
it  all?" 

"I've  faced  it  all,"  he  answered,  trying  to  laugh.  "I  can't 
leave  you,  Katie,  and  that's  the  truth.  And  if  I've  got  to 
have  your  mother  and  the  family  as  well,  why,  then,  I've  got 
to  have  them.  .  .  .  But,  oh !  my  dear,  how  your  mother  de- 
spises me !  Well,  I  suppose  I  am  a  weak  young  man !  And 
I  shall  forget  Russia  in  time.  .  .  .  I've  got  to!"  he  ended, 
almost  under  his  breath. 

She  looked  at  him  queerly. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "I  know  now  what  we've  got  to  do." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked. 

"Wait.  I  must  go  and  speak  to  Uncle  Tim.  I  shall  be 
an  hour.  Be  ready  for  me  out  here  under  this  tree  in  an 
hour's  time.  It  will  be  seven  o'clock." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  her  again,  but  she  had 
gone. 

She  had  picked  up  an  old  garden  hat  in  the  hall,  and  now 
very  swiftly  hurried  up  the  village  road.  She  walked,  the 
dust  rising  about  her  and  the  black  cloud  gaining  in  size  and 
strength  behind  her.  Uncle  Tim's  house  stood  by  itself  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  village.  She  looked  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  did  not  answer  the  greeting  of  the  villagers,  passed 
quickly  through  the  little  garden,  over  the  public  path  and 
rang  the  rusty,  creaking  bell.  An  old  woman,  who  had  been 
Uncle  Tim's  housekeeper  for  an  infinite  number  of  years, 
opened  the  door. 

"Ah,  Miss  Kathie,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Do  ee  come  in. 
'E's  gardenin',  poor  soul.  All  of  a  sweat.  Terrible  'ot  'tis, 
tu.  Makin'  up  thunder  I'm  thinkin'." 

Katherine  went  into  the  untidy,  dusty  hall,  then  into  ker 


368  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

uncle's  study.  This  had,  ever  since  her  childhood,  been  the 
same,  a  litter  of  bats,  fishing-rods,  specimens  of  plants  and 
flowers  drying  on  blotting  paper,  books  lying  in  piles  on  the 
floor,  and  a  pair  of  trousers  hanging  by  a  nail  on  to  the  back 
of  the  door. 

She  waited,  seeing  none  of  these  familiar  things.  She 
did  not,  at  first,  see  her  uncle  when  he  came  in  from  the  gar- 
den, perspiration  dripping  down  his  face,  his  old  cricket  shirt 
open  at  the  neck,  his  grey  flannel  trousers  grimed  with  dust. 

"Hullo,  Katie!"  he  cried,  "what  do  you  want?  And  if 
it's  an  invitation  to  dinner  tell  'em  I  can't  come."  Then, 
taking  another  look  at  her,  he  said  gravely,  "What's  up,  my 
dear?" 

She  sat  down  in  an  old  arm-chair  which  boasted  a  large 
hole  and  only  three  legs;  he  drew  up  a  chair  close  to  her, 
then  suddenly,  as  though  he  saw  that  she  needed  comfort, 
put  his  arms  round  her. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  dear  ?"  he  repeated. 

"Uncle  Tim,"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly  but  quietly  and 
firmly,  "you've  got  to  help  me.     You've  always  said  that 
you  would  if  I  wanted  you." 
"Why,  of  course,"  he  answered  simply.  "What's  happened  ?" 

"Everything.  Things,  as  you  know,  have  been  getting 
worse  and  worse  at  home  ever  since — well,  ever  since  Phil 
and  I  were  engaged." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said. 

"It  hasn't  been  Phil's  fault,"  she  broke  out  with  sudden 
fierceness.  "He's  done  everything.  It's  been  my  fault. 
I've  been  blind  and  stupid  from  the  beginning.  I  don't  want 
to  be  long,  Uncle  Tim,  because  there's  not  much  time,  but 
I  must  explain  everything  so  that  you  shall  understand  me 
and  not  think  it  wrong.  We've  got  nearly  two  hours." 

"Two  hours  ?"  he  repeated,  bewildered. 

"From  the  beginning  Mother  hated  Phil.  I  always  saw 
it  of  course,  but  I  used  to  think  that  it  would  pass  when  she 
knew  Phil  better — that  no  one  could  help  knowing  him  with- 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  369 

out  loving  him — and  that  was  silly,  of  course.  But  I  waited, 
and  always  hoped  that  things  would  be  better.  Then  in  the 
spring  down  here  there  was  one  awful  Sunday,  when  Aunt 
Aggie  at  supper  made  a  scene  and  accused  Philip  of  leading 
Henry  astray  or  something  equally  ridiculous.  After  that 
Philip  wanted  me  to  run  away  with  him,  and  I — I  don't 
know — but  I  felt  that  he  ought  to  insist  on  it,  to  make  me  go. 
He  didn't  insist,  and  then  I  saw  suddenly  that  he  wasn't 
strong  enough  to  insist  on  anything,  and  that  instead  of  being 
the  great  character  that  I'd  once  thought  him,  he  was  really 
weak  and  under  anyone's  influence.  Well,  that  made  me 
love  him  in  a  different  way,  but  more — much  more-r-than  I 
ever  had  before.  I  saw  that  he  wanted  looking  after  and  pro- 
tecting. I  suppose  you'll  think  that  foolish  of  me,"  she  said 
fiercely. 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear,"  said  Uncle  Tim,  "go  on." 
"Well,  there  was  something  else,"  Katherine  went  on. 
"One  day  some  time  before,  when  we  first  came  to  Garth,  he 
told  me  that  when  he  was  in  Russia  he  had  loved  another 
woman.  They  had  a  child,  a  boy,  who  died.  He  was  afraid 
to  tell  me,  because  he  thought  that  I'd  think  terribly  of  him. 

"But  what  did  it  matter,  when  he'd  given  her  up  and  left 
her?  Only  this  mattered — that  I  couldn't  forget  her.  I 
wasn't  jealous,  but  I  was  curious — terribly.  I  asked  him 
questions,  I  wanted  to  see  her  as  she  was — it  was  so  strange 
to  me  that  there  should  be  that  woman,  still  living  somewhere, 
who  knew  more,  much  more,  about  Phil  than  I  did.  Then 
the  more  questions  I  asked  him  about  her  the  more  he  thought 
of  her  and  of  Russia,  so  that  at  last  he  asked  me  not  to  speak 
of  her.  But  then  she  seemed  to  come  between  us,  because  we 
both  thought  of  her,  and  I  used  to  wonder  whether  he  wanted 
to  go  back  to  her,  and  he  wondered  whether,  after  all,  I  was 
jealous  about  her.  Then  things  got  worse  with  everyone.  I 
felt  as  though  everyone  was  against  us.  After  the  Faunder 
wedding  Henry  and  Phil  had  a  quarrel,  and  Henry  behaved 
like  a  baby. 


370  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"I've  had  a  dreadful  time  lately.  I've  imagined  anything. 
I've  been  expecting  Phil  to  run  away.  Millie  said  he  would 
— Mother's  been  so  strange.  She  hated  Phil,  but  she  asked 
him  to  Garth,  and  seemed  to  want  to  have  him  with  her. 
She's  grown  so  different  that  I  simply  haven't  known  her 
lately.  And  Phil  too — it's  had  a  dreadful  effect  on  him.  He 
seems  to  have  lost  all  his  happiness — he  hates  Garth  and 
everything  in  it,  but  he's  wanted  to  be  near  me,  and  so  he's 
come.  So  there  we've  all  been."  She  paused  for  a  moment, 
then  went  on  quickly.  "Just  now — this  afternoon — it  all 
came  to  a  climax.  Aunt  Aggie  had  found  out  from  Henry 
about  the  Russian  woman.  She  lost  her  temper  at  tea,  and 
told  Mother  before  us  all.  Phil  has  been  expecting  this  to 
happen  for  weeks,  and  had  been  almost  hoping  for  it,  because 
then  he  thought  that  Mother  and  Father  would  say  that  he 
must  give  me  up,  and  that  then  I  would  refuse  to  leave  him. 
In  that  way  he'd  escape. 

"But  it  seemed" — here  Katherine,  dropping  her  voice, 
spoke  more  slowly — "that  Mother  had  known  all  the  time. 
That  horrid  Mr.  Seymour  in  London  had  told  her.  She'd 
known  for  months,  and  had  never  said  anything — Mother, 
who  would  have  been  horrified  a  year  ago.  But  no — She 
said  nothing.  She  only  told  Aunt  Aggie  that  she  oughtn't  to 
make  scenes  in  the  drawing-room,  and  that  it  wasn't  her  busi- 
ness. 

"Philip  saw  then  that  his  last  chance  was  gone,  that  she 
meant  never  to  let  me  go,  and  that  if  she  must  have  him  as 
well  she'd  have  him.  He's  sure  now  that  I'll  never  give 
Mother  up  unless  she  makes  me  choose  between  him  and  her 
— and  so  he's  just  resigned  himself." 

Uncle  Tim  would  have  spoken,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"And  there's  more  than  that.  Perhaps  it's  foolish  of  me, 
but  I've  felt  as  though  that  woman — that  Russian  woman — 
had  been  coming  nearer  and  nearer  and  nearer.  There  was 
an  evening  the  other  night  when  I  felt  that  she'd  come  right 
inside  the  house.  I  went  into  the  hall  and  listened.  That 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  371 

must  seem  ridiculous  to  anyone  outside  the  family,  but  it  may 
be  that  thinking  of  anyone  continually  does  bring  them — 
does  do  something.  ...  At  least  for  me  now  she's  here,  and 
she's  going  to  try  and  take  Phil  back  again.  Mother  wants 
her,  it's  Mother,  perhaps,  who  has  made  her  come.  Mother 
can  make  Phil  miserable  in  a  thousand  ways  by  reminding 
him  of  her,  by  suggesting,  by  .  .  ."  With  a  great  cry 
Katherine  broke  off:  "Oh,  Mother,  Mother,  I  did  love  you 
so !"  and  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears,  clung  to  her  uncle 
as  though  she  were  still  a  little  child. 

Then  how  he  soothed  her !  stroking  her  hair,  telling  her  that 
he  loved  her,  that  he  would  help  her,  that  he  would  do  any- 
thing for  her.  He  held  her  in  his  arms,  murmuring  to  her 
as  he  had  done  so  many  years  ago: 

"There,  Katie,  Katie  .  .  .  it's  all  right,  it's  all  right. 
Nobody  will  touch  you.  It's  all  right,  it's  all  right." 

At  last,  with  a  sudden  movement,  as  though  she  had 
realised  that  there  was  little  time  to  waste,  she  broke  from 
him  and  stood  up,  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief; 
then,  with  that  strange  note  of  fierceness,  so  foreign  to  the 
old  mild  Katherine,  she  said: 

"But  now  I  see — I  see  everything.  What  Millie  said  is 
true — I  can't  have  it  both  ways,  I've  got  to  choose.  Mother 
doesn't  care  for  anything  so  much  as  for  beating  Philip,  for 
humiliating  him,  for  making  him  do  everything  that  she  says. 
That  other  woman  too — she'd  like  to  see  him  humiliated, 
laughed  at — I  know  that  she's  like  that,  crue1  and  hard. 

"And  he's  only  got  me  in  all  the  world.  I  can  beat  that 
other  woman  only  by  showing  her  that  I'm  stronger  than  she 
is.  I  thought  once  that  it  was  Phil  who  would  take  me  and 
look  after  me,  but  now  it  is  I  that  must  look  after  him. 

"If  we  stay,  if  we  do  as  Mother  wishes,  we  shall  never  es- 
cape. I  love  everything  here,  I  love  them  all,  I  can't  leave 
them  unless  I  do  it  now,  now\  Even  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
weak  again.  Mother's  stronger  than  we  are.  She's  stronger, 


THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

I  do  believe,  than  anyone.     Uncle  Tim,  we  must  go  to-night !" 

"To-night!"  he  repeated,  staring  at  her. 

"Now,  at  once,  in  an  hour's  time.  We  can  drive  to  Ras- 
selas.  There's  the  London  Express  at  eight  o'clock.  It's  in 
London  by  midnight.  I  can  wire  to  Rachel.  She'll  have 
me.  We  can  be  married,  by  special  licence,  to-morrow!" 

He  did  not  seem  astonished  by  her  impetuosity.  He  got 
up  slowly  from  his  chair,  knocked  over  with  his  elbow  the 
blotting-paper  upon  which  were  the  dried  flowers,  swore,  bent 
down  and  picked  them  up  slowly  one  by  one,  rose  at  last  and, 
very  red  in  the  face  with  his  exertions,  looked  at  her.  Then 
he  smiled  gently,  stroking  his  fingers  through  his  beard. 

"My  dear,  how  you've  changed!"  he  said. 

"You  understand,  Uncle  Tim,"  she  urged.  "I  couldn't 
tell  Millie.  They'd  make  it  bad  for  her  afterwards,  and  it 
would  hurt  Mother  too.  I  don't  want  Mother  to  be  left 
alone.  It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  I  saw  it  all  in  a  flash  this 
evening  when  Mother  was  speaking.  Even  to-morrow  may 
be  too  late,  when  I  see  the  garden  again  and  the  village  and 
when  they're  all  kind  to  me.  And  perhaps  after  all  it  will 
be  all  right.  Only  I  must  show  them  that  Phil  comes  first, 
that  if  I  must  choose,  I  choose  PhiL" 

She  paused,  breathlessly.  He  was  grave  again  when  he 
spoke: 

"You  know,  my  dear,  what  you  are  doing,  don't  you  ?  I 
won't  say  whether  I  think  you  right  or  wrong.  It's  for  you 
to  decide,  and  only  you.  But  just  think.  It's  a  tremendous 
thing.  It's  more  than  just  marrying  Philip.  It's  giving 
up,  perhaps,  everything  here — giving  up  Garth  and  Glebe- 
shire  and  the  house.  Giving  up  your  Mother  may  be  for 
ever.  I  know  your  Mother.  It  is  possible  that  she  will 
never  forgive  you." 

Katherine's  under  lip  quivered.     She  nodded  her  head. 

"And  it's  hurting  her,"  he  went  on,  "hurting  her  more  than 
ever  anything  has  done.  It's  her  own  fault  in  a  way.  I 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  373 

warned  her  long  ago.  But  never  mind  that.  You  must  real- 
ise what  you're  doing." 

"I  do  realise  it,"  Katherine  answered  firmly.  "It  needn't 
hurt  her  really,  if  her  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  her  hatred 
of  Philip.  I've  thought  it  all  out.  If  she  loves  me  she'll 
see  that  my  love  for  her  isn't  changed  at  all, — that  it's  there 
just  as  it  always  was;  that  it's  only  that  she  has  made  me 
choose,  either  Phil's  happiness  or  unhappiness.  I  can  only 
choose  one  way.  He's  ready  to  give  up  everything,  surrender 
all  the  splendid  things  he  was  going  to  do,  give  up  half  of  me, 
perhaps  more,  to  the  family — perhaps  more.  He  hates  the 
life  here,  but  he'll  live  it,  under  Mother  and  grandfather  and 
the  rest,  for  my  sake.  It  isn't  fair  that  he  should.  Mother, 
if  she  loves  me,  will  see  that.  But  I  don't  believe,"  here 
Katherine's  voice  trembled  again,  "that  she  cares  for  anything 
so  much  as  beating  Philip.  He's  the  first  person  in  the  world 
who  ever  opposed  her.  .  .  .  She  knows  that  I'll  love  her  al- 
ways, always,  but  Phil's  life  shan't  be  spoilt.  Nothing  mat- 
ters beside  that." 

She  stopped,  her  breast  heaving,  her  eyes  flashing;  he 
looked  at  her  and  was  amazed,  as  in  his  queer,  isolated  life 
he  had  never  been  before,  at  what  love  can  do  to  the  soul. 

"Life's  for  the  young,"  he  said,  "you're  right,  Katherine. 
Your  Mother  will  never  forgive  me,  but  I'll  help  you." 

"No,"  Katherine  said,  "you're  not  to  be  involved,  Uncle 
Tim.  Mother  mustn't  lose  anyone  afterwards.  You're  to 
know  nothing  about  it.  I  shall  leave  a  note  with  someone  to 
be  taken  up  to  the  house  at  half-past  nine.  I've  told  you  be- 
cause I  wanted  you  to  know,  but  you're  not  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  it.  But  you'll  love  me  just  the  same,  won't  you  ? 
You  won't  be  any  different,  will  you  ?  I  had  to  know  that. 
With  you  and  Millie  and  Aunt  Betty  and  Father  caring  for 
me  afterwards,  it  won't  be  quite  like  breaking  with  the  fam- 
ily. Only,  Uncle  Tim,  I  want  you  to  do  for  me  what  you 
can  with  Mother.  I've  explained  everything  to  you,  so  that 
you  can  tell  her — show  her." 


374  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

i 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said.  Then  he  caught  her  and 
hugged  her. 

"Good  luck,"  he  said — and  she  was  gone. 

Although  she  had  been  less  than  her  hour  with  her  uncle, 
she  knew  that  she  had  no  time  to  spare.  She  was  haunted,  as 
she  hurried  back  again  down  the  village  road  by  alarms,  re- 
grets, agonising  reproaches  that  she  refused  to  admit.  She 
fortified  her  consciousness  against  everything  save  the  imme- 
diate business  to  which  she  had  bound  herself,  but  every  tree 
upon  the  road,  every  hideous  cottage,  every  stone  and  flower 
besieged  her  with  memories.  "You  are  leaving  us  for  ever. 
Why  ?  For  Panic  ?  ...  For  Panic  ?"  .  .  .  She  could  hear 
the  voices  that  would  follow  the  retreat.  "But  why  did  she 
run  away  like  that  ?  It  wasn't  even  as  though  their  engage- 
ment had  been  forbidden.  To  be  married  all  in  a  hurry  and 
in  secret — I  don't  like  the  look  of  it.  ...  She  was  always 
such  a  quiet,  sensible  girl." 

And  she  knew — it  had  not  needed  Uncle  Tim's  words  to 
show  her — that  this  act  of  hers  was  uprooting  her  for  ever 
from  everything  that  had  made  life  for  her.  She  would 
never  go  back.  More  deeply  than  that,  she  would  never  be- 
long again,  she,  who  only  six  months  ago  had  been  the  bond 
that  had  held  them  all  together.  .  .  . 

And  behind  these  thoughts  were  two  figures  so  strangely,  so 
impossibly  like  one  another — the  first  that  woman,  suddenly 
old,  leaning  back  on  to  Katherine's  breast,  fast  asleep,  tired 
out,  her  mother — the  second  that  woman  who,  only  that  after- 
noon, had  turned  and  given  both  Katherine  and  Philip  that 
look  of  triumph.  .  .  .  "I've  got  you  both — You  see  that  I 
shall  never  let  you  go.  You  cannot,  cannot,  cannot,  escape." 
That  also  was  her  mother. 

She  stopped  at  the  village  inn,  'The  Three  Pilchards',  saw 
Dick  Penhaligan,  the  landlord,  and  an  old  friend  of  hers. 

"Dick,  in  half-an-hour  I  want  a  jingle.  I've  got  to  go  to 
Rasselas  to  meet  the  eight  train.  I'll  drive  myself." 

"All  right,  Miss  Katherine,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  375 

affection.  "  'Twill  be  a  wild  night,  I'm  thinkin'.  Workin' 
up  wild." 

"Twenty  minutes,  Dick,"  she  nodded  to  him,  and  was  off 
again.  She  crossed  the  road,  opened  the  little  wicket  gate 
that  broke  into  the  shrubbery,  found  her  way  on  to  the  lawn, 
and  there,  under  the  oak,  was  Philip,  waiting  for  her.  As 
she  came  up  to  him  she  felt  the  first  spurt  of  rain  upon  her 
cheek.  The  long  lighted  windows  of  the  house  were  watch- 
ing them ;  she  drew  under  the  shadow  of  the  tree. 

"Phil,"  she  whispered,  her  hand  on  his  arm,  "there  isn't  a 
moment  to  lose.  I've  arranged  everything.  We  must  catch 
the  eight  o'clock  train  at  Rasselas.  We  shall  be  in  London 
by  twelve.  I  shall  go  to  Rachel  Seddon's.  We  can  be  mar- 
ried by  Special  Licence  to-morrow." 

She  had  thought  of  it  so  resolutely  that  she  did  not  realise 
that  it  was  new  to  him.  He  gasped,  stepping  back  from  her. 

"My  dear  Katie !     What  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"Oh,  there  isn't  any  time"  she  went  on  impatiently.  "If 
you  don't  come  I  go  alone.  It  will  be  the  same  thing  in  the 
end.  I  saw  it  all  this  afternoon.  Things  cant  go  on.  I 
understood  Mother.  I  know  what  she's  determined  to  do. 
We  must  escape  or  it  will  be  too  late.  Even  to-morrow  it 
may  be.  I  won't  trust  myself  if  I  stay ;  I'm  afraid  even  to 
see  Mother  again,  but  I  know  I'm  right.  We  have  only  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  That  suit  will  do,  and  of  course  you 
mustn't  have  a  bag  or  anything.  There's  that  cousin  of  yours 
in  the  Adelphi  somewhere.  You  can  go  to  him.  We  must 
be  at  the  'Three  Pilchards'  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  go 
separately,  of  course,  or  someone  may  stop  us.  ...  " 

But  he  drew  back.  "No,  no,  no,"  he  said.  "Katie,  you're 
mad!  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  you  do  a  thing  like 
this  ?  What  do  you  suppose  I'm  made  of  ?  Why,  if  we  were 
to  go  off  now  they'd  never  forgive  you,  they'd  throw  you 
off— 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  broke  in  impatiently,  "that's  exactly 
why  we've  got  to  do  it.  You  proposed  it  to  me  yourself 


376  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

once,  and  I  refused  because  I  didn't  understand  what  our 
staying  here  meant.  But  I  do  now — it's  all  settled,  I  tell 
you,  Phil,  and  there's  only  ten  minutes.  It's  the  last  chance. 
If  we  miss  that  train  we  shall  never  escape  from  Mother,  from 
Anna,  from  anyone.  Oh !  I  know  it !  I  know  it !" 

She  scarcely  realised  her  words;  she  was  tugging  at  his 
sleeve,  trying  to  drag  him  with  her. 

But  he  shook  her  off.  "No,  Katie,  I  tell  you  I'm  not  such 
a  cad.  I  know  what  all  this  means  to  you,  the  place,  the 
people,  everything.  It's  true  that  I  asked  you  once  to  go 
off,  but  I  didn't  love  you  then  as  I  do  now.  I  was  thinking 
more  of  myself  then — but  now  I'm  ready  for  anything  here. 
You  know  that  I  am.  I  don't  care  if  only  they  let  me  stay 
with  you." 

"But  they  won't,"  Katherine  urged.  "You  know  what 
they'll  do.  They'll  marry  us,  they'll  make  you  take  a  house 
near  at  hand,  and  if  you  refuse  they'll  persuade  you  that 
you're  making  me  miserable.  Oh !  Phil !  don't  you  see — if 
I  were  sure  of  myself  I'd  never  run  off  like  this,  but  it's  from 
myself  that  I'm  running.  That's  the  whole  point  of  every- 
thing. I  can't  trust  myself  with  Mother.  She  has  as  much 
influence  over  me  as  ever  she  had.  I  felt  it  to-day  more  than 
I've  ever  felt  it.  There  she  is  over  both  of  us.  You  know  that 
you're  weaker  with  her  than  I  am.  It  isn't  that  she  does 
anything  much  except  sit  quiet,  but  I  love  her,  and  it's 
through  that  she  gets  at  both  of  us.  No,  Phil,  we've  got  to 
go — and  now.  If  not  now,  then  never.  I  shan't  be  strong 
enough  to-morrow.  Don't  you  see  what  she  can  do  in  the 
future,  now  that  she  knows  about  Anna.  ..."  Then,  al- 
most in  a  whisper,  she  brought  out:  "Don't  you  see  what 
Anna  can  do  ?" 

"No  "  he  said,  "I  won't  go.     It's  not  fair.     It's  not— 

"Yv  cu,  she  answered  him,  "it  doesn't  matter  what  you  do, 
whether  you  go  or  not.  I  shall  go.  And  what  are  you  to  do 
then?" 

She  had  vanished  across  the  lawn,  leaving  him  standing 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  377 

there.  Behind  all  his  perplexity  and  a  certain  shame  at  his 
inaction,  a  fire  of  exultation  inflamed  him,  making  him  heed- 
less of  the  rain  or  the  low  muttering  thunder  far  away.  She 
loved  him !  She  was  freeing  him !  His  glory  in  her  strength, 
her  courage,  flew  like  a  burning  arrow  to  his  heart,  killing  the 
old  man  in  him,  striking  him  to  the  ground,  that  old  lumber- 
ing body  giving  way  before  a  new  creature  to  whom  the  whole 
world  was  a  plain  of  victory.  He  stood  there  trembling  with 
his  love  for  her.  .  .  . 

Then  he  realised  that,  whatever  he  did,  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost.  And  after  all  what  was  he  to  do  ?  Did  he  enter 
and  alarm  the  family,  tell  them  that  Katherine  was  flying  to 
London,  what  would  he  gain  but  her  scorn?  How  much 
would  he  lose  to  save  nothing  ?  Even  as  he  argued  with  him- 
self some  stronger  power  was  dragging  him  to  the  house.  He 
was  in  his  room ;  he  had  his  coat  and  hat  from  the  hall ;  he 
saw  no  one ;  he  was  in  the  dark  garden  again,  stepping  softly 
through  the  wicket-gate  on  to  the  high  road — Then  the  wind 
of  the  approaching  storm  met  him  with  a  scurry  of  rain  that 
slashed  his  face.  He  did  not  know  that  now,  for  the  first  mo- 
ment since  his  leaving  Russia,  Anna  was  less  to  him  than 
nothing.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  leaving  behind  him 
in  that  dark  rain-swept  garden  an  indignant,  a  defeated 
ghost.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  Katherine  had  gone,  rapidly,  without  pause,  to 
her  bedroom.  She  was  conscious  of  nothing  until  she  reached 
it,  and  then  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  struck  by  a 
sudden,  poignant  agony  of  reproach  that  took,  for  the  mo- 
ment, all  life  from  her.  Her  knees  were  trembling,  her 
heart  pounding  in  her  breast,  her  eyes  veiled  by  some  mist 
that  yet  allowed  her  to  see  with  a  fiery  clarity  every  detail  of 
the  room.  They  rose  and  besieged  her,  the  chairs,  the  photo- 
graphs, the  carpet,  the  bed,  the  wash-hand-stand,  the  pictures, 
the  window  with  the  old,  old  view  of  the  wall,  the  church- 
tower,  the  crooked  apple-tree  clustered  in  a  corner,  the  bed 


378  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

of  roses,  the  flash  of  the  nook  beyond  the  lawn.  She  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  Everything  was  still  there,  crying 
to  her  "Don't  leave  us!  Is  our  old  devotion  nothing,  our 
faithful  service  ?  Are  you,  whom  we  have  trusted,  false  like 
the  rest?" 

She  swayed  then;  tears  that  would  never  fall  burnt  her 
eyes.  The  first  rain  lashed  her  window,  and  from  the  trees 
around  the  church  some  flurry  of  rooks  rose,  protesting  against 
the  coming  storm.  She  drove  it  all  down  with  a  strong  hand. 
She  would  not  listen.  .  .  . 

Then,  as  she  found  her  coat  and  hat,  a  figure  rose  before 
her,  the  one  figure  that,  just  then,  could  most  easily  defeat 
her.  Her  Mother  she  would  not  see,  Millie,  Henry,  the 
Aunts  could  not  then  touch  her.  It  was  her  Father. 

They  were  breaking  their  word  to  him,  they  who  were 
standing  now  upon  their  honour.  His  laughing,  friendly 
spirit,  that  had  never  touched  her  very  closely,  now  seemed 
to  cling  to  her  more  nearly  than  them  all.  He  had  kept  out- 
side all  their  family  trouble,  as  he  had  kept  outside  all  trou- 
ble since  his  birth.  He  had  laughed  at  them,  patted  them  on 
the  shoulder,  determined  that  if  he  did  not  look  too  closely  at 
things  they  must  be  well,  refused  to  see  the  rifts  and  divi- 
sions and  unhappiness.  Nevertheless  he  must  have  seen 
something;  he  had  sent  Henry  to  Cambridge,  had  looked  at 
Millie  and  Katherine  sometimes  with  a  gravity  that  was  not 
his  old  manner. 

Seeing  him  suddenly  now,  it  was  as  though  he  knew  what 
she  was  about  to  do,  and  was  appealing  to  her  with  a  new 
gravity:  "Katie,  my  dear,  I  may  have  seemed  not  to  have 
cared,  to  have  noticed  nothing,  but  now — don't  give  us  up. 
Wait.  Things  will  be  happier.  Wait.  Trust  us." 

She  beat  him  down ;  stayed  for  another  moment  beside  the 
window,  her  hands  pressed  close  against  her  eyes. 

Then  she  went  to  her  little  writing-table,  and  scribbled 
very  rapidly  this  note: 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  379 

"DARLING  MOTHER, 

I  have  gone  with  Philip  by  the  eight  train  to  London. 
We  shall  be  married  as  soon  as  possible.  I  shall  stay  with 
Rachel  until  then.  You  know  that  things  could  not  go  on 
as  they  were. 

Will  you  understand,  dear  Mother,  that  if  I  did  not 
love  you  so  deeply  I  would  not  have  done  this?  But  be- 
cause you  would  not  let  Phil  go  I  have  had  to  choose.  If 
only  you  will  understand  that  I  do  not  love  you  less  for 
this,  but  that  it  is  for  Phil's  sake  that  I  do  it,  you  will 
love  me  as  before.  And  you  know  that  I  will  love  you 
always. 

Your  devoted  daughter, 

KATHESINE." 

She  laid  this  against  the  looking-glass  on  her  dressing-table, 
glanced  once  more  at  the  room,  then  went. 

Upon  the  stairs  she  met  Henry. 

"Hullo!"  he  cried,  "going  out?  There's  a  lot  of  rain 
coming." 

"I  know,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I  have  to  see  Penhali- 
gan.  It's  important." 

He  looked  at  her  little  black  hat;  her  black  coat.  These 
were  not  the  things  that  one  put  on  for  a  hurried  excursion 
into  the  village. 

"You'll  be  late  for  dinner,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  shan't,"  she  answered,  "I  must  hurry."  She 
brushed  past  him ;  she  had  an  impulse  to  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kiss  him,  but  she  did  not  look  back. 

She  went  through  the  hall ;  he  turned  on  the  stairs  and 
watched  her,  then  went  slowly  to  his  room. 

When  she  came  out  on  to  the  high  road  the  wind  had  fallen 
and  the  rain  was  coming  in  slow  heavy  drops.  The  sky  was 
all  black,  except  that  at  its  very  heart  there  burnt  a  brilliant 
star;  just  above  the  horizon  there  was  a  bar  of  sharp-edged 
gold.  When  she  came  to  the  'Three  Pilchards'  the  world  was 


380  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

lit  with  a  strange  half-light  so  that,  although  one  could  see 
all  things  distinctly,  there  was  yet  the  suggestion  that  noth- 
ing was  what  it  seemed.  The  'jingle'  was  there,  and  Philip 
standing  in  conversation  with  Dick  Penhaligan. 

"Nasty  night  'twill  be,  Miss  Katherine.  Whisht  sort  o' 
weather.  Shouldn't  like  for  'ee  to  get  properly  wet.  Open 
jingle  tu." 

"That's  all  right,  Dick,"  she  answered.  "We've  got  to 
meet  the  train.  I've  been  wet  before  now,  you  know." 

She  jumped  into  the  trap  and  took  the  reins.  Philip  fol- 
lowed her.  If  Mr.  Penhaligan  thought  there  was  anything 
strange  in  the  proceeding  he  did  not  say  so.  He  watched 
them  out  of  the  yard,  gave  a  look  at  the  sky,  then  went  whis- 
tling into  the  house. 

They  did  not  speak  until  they  had  left  the  village  behind 
them,  then,  as  they  came  up  to  Pelynt  Cross,  the  whole  beauty 
of  the  sweep  of  stormy  sky  burst  upon  them.  The  storm 
seemed  to  be  gathering  itself  together  before  it  made  its 
spring,  bunched  up  heavy  and  black  on  the  horizon,  whilst  the 
bar  of  gold  seemed  to  waver  and  hesitate  beneath  the  weight 
of  it.  Above  their  heads  the  van  of  the  storm,  twisted  and 
furious,  leaned  forward,  as  though  with  avaricious  fingers, 
to  take  the  whole  world  into  its  grasp. 

At  its  heart  still  shone  that  strange  glittering  star.  Be- 
neath the  sky  the  grey  expanse  of  the  moon  quivered  with  an- 
ticipation like  a  quaking  bog ;  some  high  grass,  bright  against 
the  sky,  gave  little  windy  tugs,  as  though  it  would  release 
itself  and  escape  before  the  fury  beat  it  down.  Once  and 
again,  very  far  away,  the  rumble  of  the  thunder  rose  and  fell, 
the  heavy  raindrops  were  still  slow  and  measured,  as  though 
they  told  the  seconds  left  to  the  world  before  it  was  devas- 
tated. 

Up  there,  on  the  moor,  Phiilp  put  his  arm  round  Kather- 
ine. His  heart  was  beating  with  tumultuous  love  for  her,  so 
that  he  choked  and  his  face  was  on  fire;  his  hand  trembled 
against  her  dress.  This  was  surely  the  most  wonderful  thing 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  381 

that  had  ever  happened  to  him.  He  had  seemed  so  utterly 
lost,  and,  although  he  had  known  that  she  loved  him,  he  had 
resigned  himself  to  the  belief  that  her  love  stayed  short  of  sac- 
rifice. He  had  said  to  himself  that  he  was  not  enough  of  a 
fellow  for  it  to  be  otherwise.  And  now  he  did  not  care  for 
any  of  them !  No  one,  he  realised,  had  ever,  in  all  his  life, 
made  any  great  sacrifice  for  him — even  Anna  had  let  him  go 
when  he  made  life  tiresome  for  her. 

Surging  up  in  him  now  was  the  fine  vigour  of  reassurance 
that  Katherine's  love  gave  to  him.  It  was  during  that  drive 
to  Rasselas  station  that  he  began,  for  the  first  time,  to  believe 
in  himself.  He  did  not  speak,  but  held  Katherine  with  his 
arm  close  to  him,  and  once,  for  a  moment,  he  put  his  cheek 
against  hers. 

But  she  was  not,  then,  thinking  of  Philip,  she  was  scarcely 
aware  that  he  was  with  her.  Her  whole  will  and  purpose 
was  concentrated  on  reaching  the  station  in  time.  She 
thought:  "If  we  missed  that  train  we're  finished.  We'll 
have  to  come  back.  They'll  have  found  my  note.  Mother 
won't  be  angry  outwardly,  but  she'll  hate  Phil  twice  as  much 
as  ever,  and  she'll  never  loose  her  hold  again.  She'll  show 
him  how  ashamed  he  should  be,  and  she'll  show  me  how  deeply 
I've  hurt  her.  We  shall  neither  of  us  have  the  courage  to 
try  a  'second  time'." 

How  was  it  that  she  saw  all  this  so  clearly  ?  Never  before 
these  last  months  had  she  thought  of  anything  save  what  was 
straight  in  front  of  her.  .  .  .  The  world  was  suddenly  un- 
rolled before  her  like  a  map  of  a  strange  country. 

Meanwhile,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  she  was  wildly 
excited.  Her  imagination,  liberated  after  those  long  years 
of  captivity,  flamed  now  before  her  eyes.  She  felt  the  storm 
behind  her,  and  she  thought  that  at  the  head  of  it,  urging  it 
forward,  was  that  figure  who  had  pursued  her,  so  remorse- 
lessly, ever  since  that  day  at  Rafiel  when  Philip  had  con- 
fessed to  her. 


382  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Anna  would  keep  them  if  she  could,  she  would  drag  them 
back,  miserable  fugitives,  to  face  the  family — and  then  how 
she  would  punish  Philip ! 

"Oh,  go  on !  Go  on !"  Katherine  cried,  whipping  the  pony ; 
they  began  to  climb  a  long  hill.  Suddenly  the  thunder  broke 
overhead,  crashing  amongst  the  trees  of  a  dark  little  wood  on 
their  right.  Then  the  rain  came  down  in  slanting,  stinging 
sheets.  With  that  clap  of  thunder  the  storm  caught  them, 
whirled  up  to  them,  beat  them  in  the  face,  buffeted  in  their 
eyes  and  ears,  shot  lightning  across  their  path,  and  then 
plunged  them  on  into  yet  more  impenetrable  darkness.  The 
world  was  abysmal,  was  on  fire,  was  rocking,  was  springing 
with  a  thousand  gestures  to  stop  them  on  their  way.  Kath- 
erine fancied  that  in  front  of  her  path  figures  rose  and  fell, 
the  very  hedges  riding  in  a  circle  round  about  her. 

"Oh !  go  on !  Go  on !"  she  whispered,  swaying  in  her  seat, 
then  feeling  Philip's  arm  about  her.  They  rose,  as  though 
borne  on  a  wave  of  wild  weather,  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  They 
had  now  only  the  straight  road;  they  could  see  the  station 
lights.  Then  the  thunder,  as  though  enraged  at  their  per- 
sistence, broke  into  a  shattering  clatter — the  soil,  the  hedges, 
the  fields,  the  sky  crumbled  into  rain;  a  great  lash  of  storm 
whipped  them  in  the  face,  and  the  pony,  frightened  by  the 
thunder,  broke  from  Katherine's  hand,  ran  wildly  through 
the  dark,  crashed  with  a  shuddering  jar  into  the  hedge. 
Their  lamps  fell ;  the  'jingle',  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
slipped  over  and  gently  dropped  them  on  to  the  rain-soaked 
ground. 

Katherine  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant.  She  saw  that 
by  a  happy  miracle  one  of  the  lamps  still  burned.  She  went 
to  the  pony,  and  found  that,  although  he  was  trembling,  he 
was  unhurt.  Philip  was  trying  to  turn  the  'jingle'  upright 
again. 

"Quick !"  she  cried.  "Hang  the  lamp  on  the  cart.  We 
must  run  for  it — the  shaft's  broken  or  something.  There's 


THE  WILD  NIGHT  383 

no  time  at  all  if  we're  to  catch  that  train.  Eun !  Run !  Phil ! 
There's  sure  to  be  someone  coming  in  by  the  train  who'll  see 
the  jingle'." 

They  ran;  they  were  lifted  by  the  wind,  beaten  by  the 
rain,  deafened  by  the  thunder,  and  Katherine  as  she  ran 
knew  that  by  her  side  was  her  enemy : 

"You  shan't  go !     You  shan't  go !     I've  got  you  still !" 
She  could  hear,  through  the  storm,   some  voice  crying, 
"Phil!     Phil!     Comeback!     Comeback!" 

Her  heart  was  breaking,  her  eyes  saw  flame,  her  knees 
trembled,  she  stumbled,  staggered,  slipped.  They  had 
reached  the  white  gates,  had  passed  the  level  crossing,  were 
up  the  station  steps. 

"It's  in!     It's  in !"  gasped  Philip.     "Only  a  second!" 
She  was  aware  of  astonished  eyes,  of  the  stout  station- 
master,  of  someone  who  shouted,  of  a  last  and  strangely  dis- 
tant peal  of  thunder,  of  an  open  door,  of  tumbling  forward, 
of  a  whistle  and  a  jerk,  and  then  a  slow  Glebeshire  voice: 
"Kind  o'  near  shave  that  was,  Miss,  I'm  thinkin'." 
And  through  it  all  her  voice  was  crying  exultantly :     "I've 
beaten  you — you've  done  your  worst,  but  I've  beaten  you. 
He's  mine  now  for  ever" — and  her  eyes  were  fastened  on  a 
baffled,  stormy  figure  left  on  the  dark  road,  abandoned,  and, 
at  last,  at  last,  defeated.  .  .  . 


CHAPTEE  V 

THE    TEENCHAEDS 

HENRY  waited,  for  a  moment,  on  the  stairs.  He  heard 
the  door  close  behind  Katherine,  heard  the  approach- 
ing storm  invade  the  house,  heard  the  cuckoo-clock  in  the 
passage  above  him  proclaim  seven  o'clock,  then  went  slowly 
up  to  his  room.  Why  had  Katherine  gone  out  to  see  Penhali- 
gan  in  those  clothes,  in  such  weather,  at  such  an  hour  ?  .  .  . 
Very  strange.  .  .  .  And  her  face  too.  She  was  excited,  she 
had  almost  kissed  him.  .  .  .  Her  eyes.  .  .  . 

He  entered  his  familiar  room,  looked  with  disgust  at  his 
dinner-jacket  and  trousers  lying  upon  the  bed  (he  hated  dress- 
ing for  dinner),  and  then  wandered  up  and  down,  dragging  a 
book  from  the  bookcase  and  pushing  it  impatiently  back  again, 
stumbling  over  his  evening  slippers,  pulling  his  coat  off  and 
allowing  it  to  fall,  unregarded,  on  to  the  floor. 

Katherine!  .  .  .  Katherine?  .  .  .  What  was  'up'  with 
Katherine  ? 

He  had,  in  any  case,  been  greatly  upset  by  the  events  of 
the  day.  The  crisis  for  which  he  had  so  long  been  waiting 
had  at  length  arrived,  and,  behold,  it  had  been  no  crisis  at 
all.  Superficially  it  had  been  nothing  ...  in  its  reality  it 
had  shaken,  finally,  destructively,  the  foundations  of  every- 
thing upon  which  his  life  had  been  built.  He  remembered, 
very  clearly,  the  family's  comments  upon  the  case  of  a  young 
man  known  to  them  all,  who,  engaged  to  a  girl  in  Polchester, 
had  confessed,  just  before  the  marriage,  that  he  had  had  a 
mistress  for  several  years  in  London,  who  was  however  now 
happily  married  to  a  gentleman  of  means  and  had  no  further 

384 


THE  TRENCHARDS  385 

claim  on  him.  The  engagement  had  been  broken  off,  with  the 
approval  of  all  the  best  families  in  Glebeshire.  Henry  re- 
membered that  his  mother  had  said  that  it  was  not  only  the 
immorality  of  the  young  man  but  also  his  continued  secrecy 
concerning  the  affair  that  was  so  abominable,  that,  of  course, 
"young  men  must  be  young  men,  but  you  couldn't  expect  a 
nice  girl" — and  so  on. 

He  remembered  all  this  very  clearly,  and  he  had  decided 
at  the  time  that  if  he  ever  had  a  mistress  he  would  take  very 
good  care  that  no  one  knew  about  her.  That  had  been  a  year 
ago  .  .  .  and  now!  He  was  bewildered,  almost  breathless 
with  a  kind  of  dismayed  terror  as  to  what  the  world  might 
possibly  be  coming  to.  His  mother!  of  whom  at  least  one 
thing  had  surely  been  unalterable — that  she,  herself,  would 
never  change.  And  now  she  had  taken  this  thing  without 
horror,  without  anger,  almost  with  complacency. 

She  had  Jmown  of  it  for  months ! 

It  was  as  though  he  had  cherished  a  pet  with  the  happy 
conviction  that  it  was  a  kitten  and  had  suddenly  discovered 
it  to  be  a  cub.  And  out  of  this  confusion  of  a  wrecked  and 
devastated  world  there  emerged  the  conviction  "that  there  was 
something  more  behind  all  this",  that  "his  mother  had  some 
plan."  He  did  not  see  at  all  what  her  plan  could  possibly 
be,  but  she  appeared  before  him  now  as  a  sinister  and  menac- 
ing figure,  someone  who  had  be?n  close  to  him  for  so  many 
years,  but  whose  true  immensity  he  had  never  even  remotely 
perceived. 

He,  Henry,  had,  from  other  points  of  view,  risen  out  of 
the  affair  with  considerable  good  fortune.  He  had  not,  as  far 
as  he  could  perceive,  earned  Katherine's  undying  hatred ;  he 
had  not  even  made  a  fool  of  himself,  as  might  naturally  be 
expected.  It  was  plain  enough  now  that  Philip  was  to  be 
with  them  for  ever  and  ever,  and  that  therefore  Henry  must 
make  the  best  of  him.  Now  indeed  that  it  had  come  to  this, 
Henry  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  might  not  like  Philip  very 
much  indeed.  That  night  at  the  'Empire'  had  been  the  be- 


386  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

ginning  of  life  for  Henry,  and  the  indifference  of  his  mother 
to  Philip's  past  and  the  knowledge  that  Katherine  had  long 
been  aware  of  it  made  him  not  a  little  ashamed  of  his  indig- 
nation and  tempers.  Nevertheless  Philip  had  that  effect 
upon  him,  and  would  have  it  many  times  again  no  doubt. 
For  a  clear  and  steady  moment  Henry,  looking  at  himself  in 
his  looking-glass,  wondered  whether  he  were  not  truly  the 
most  terrible  of  asses. 

However,  all  this  was  of  the  past.  It  was  with  a  sense 
of  advancing  to  meet  a  new  world  that  he  went  down  to  din- 
ner. 

In  the  drawing-room  he  found  his  mother  alone.  She 
was  wearing  an  evening  dress  of  black  silk,  and  Henry,  whose 
suspicion  of  the  world  made  him  observant,  noticed  that 
she  was  wearing  a  brooch  of  old  silver  set  with  pearls.  This 
was  a  family  brooch,  and  Henry  knew  that  his  mother  wore 
it  only  'on  occasions' ;  his  mother's  idea  of  what  made  an 
'occasion'  was  not  always  that  of  the  outside  world.  He  won- 
dered what  the  occasion  might  be  to-night. 

He  had,  for  long,  been  unconsciously  in  the  habit  of  divid- 
ing his  mother  into  two  persons,  the  figure  of  domination  and 
power  who  kept  the  household  in  awe  and  was  mysterious  in 
her  dignity  and  aloof  reserve,  and  the  figure  of  maternal 
homeliness  who  spoke  to  one  about  underclothes,  was  subject 
to  human  agitations  and  pleasures;  of  the  first  he  was 
afraid,  and  would  be  afraid  until  he  died.  The  second  he 
loved.  His  mother  to-night  was  the  first  of  these.  She 
looked,  in  his  eyes,  amazingly  young.  Her  fair  grey  hair, 
her  broad  shoulders,  her  straight  back,  these  things  showed 
Henry's  mother  to  be  younger  than  ever  Henry  would  be. 
The  pearl  brooch  gleamed  against  the  black  silk  that  covered 
her  strong  bosom ;  her  head  was  carried  high ;  her  eyes  feared 
no  man  nor  woman  alive. 

Therefore  Henry,  as  was  his  manner  on  such  an  occasion, 
did  his  best  to  slip  quietly  into  a  chair  and  hide  his  dimin- 


THE  TEENCHARDS  387 

ished  personality  in  a  book.  This,  however,  was  not  per- 
mitted him. 

"Henry,"  his  mother  said  softly,  "why  did  you  not  tell  me 
earlier  the  things  that  you  had  heard  about  Philip?" 

Henry  blushed  so  intensely  that  there  was  a  thin  white  line 
just  below  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"I  didn't  want  to  make  Katie  unhappy,"  he  muttered. 

"I  should  have  thought  your  duty  to  your  parents  came 
before  your  duty  to  Katherine,"  his  mother  replied. 

"It  wasn't  you  who  was  going  to  marry  Philip,"  he  an- 
swered, not  looking  at  his  mother. 

"Nevertheless  it's  possible  that  older  heads — yes,  older 
heads—" 

"Oh !  well !  it's  all  right,"  he  burst  out,  "I'm  sick  of  the 
thing,  and  you  and  father  don't  seem  to  mind  anything  about 
it—" 

"I  haven't  told  your  father,"  she  interrupted. 

"Haven't  told  Father  ?"  Henry  repeated. 

"'No.  Father  doesn't  think  of  such  things.  If  every- 
thing goes  well,  as  I  am  sure  that  everything  will,  Father  will 
want  to  know  nothing  further.  I  have  every  confidence  in 
Philip." 

"Why!"  Henry  burst  out,  "I  always  thought  you  hated 
Philip,  Mother.  I  simply  don't  understand." 

"There  are  quite  a  number  of  things  you  don't  understand, 
Henry  dear,"  his  mother  answered.  "Yes,  quite  a  number. 
Philip  was  perhaps  not  at  home  with  us  at  first — but  I'm  sure 
that  in  time  he  will  become  quite  one  of  the  family — almost 
as  though  he  had  been  born  a  Trenchard.  I  have  great 
hopes.  .  .  .  Your  tie  is  as  usual,  Henry,  dear,  above  your 
collar.  Let  me  put  it  down  for  you." 

Henry  waited  whilst  his  mother's  cool,  solid  fingers  rubbed 
against  his  neck  and  sent  a  little  shiver  down  his  spine  as 
though  they  would  remind  him  that  he  was  a  Trenchard  too 
and  had  better  not  try  to  forget  it.  But  the  great,  over- 
whelming impression  that  now  dominated  him  was  of  his 


388  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

mother's  happiness.  He  knew  very  well  when  his  mother  was 
happy.  There  was  a  note  in  her  voice  as  sure  and  melodious 
as  the  rhythm  of  a  stream  that  runs,  somewhere  hidden,  be- 
tween the  rocks.  He  had  known,  on  many  days,  that  deep  joy 
of  his  mother's — often  it  had  been  for  no  reason  that  he  could 
discover. 

To-night  she  was  triumphant;  her  triumph  sang  through 
every  note  of  her  voice. 

The  others  come  in.  George  Trenchard  entered,  rubbing 
his  hands  and  laughing.  He  seemed,  every  week,  redder  in 
the  face  and  stouter  all  over ;  in  physical  reality  he  added  but 
little  to  his  girth.  It  was  the  stoutness  of  moral  self-satis- 
faction and  cheerful  complaisance.  His  doctrine  of  pleasant 
aloofness  from  contact  with  other  human  beings  had  acted  so 
admirably ;  he  would  like  to  have  recommended  it  to  everyone 
had  not  such  recommendation  been  too  great  a  trouble. 

He  was  never,  after  this  evening,  to  be  aloof  again,  but 
he  did  not  know  that. 

"Well,  well,"  he  cried.  "Punctual  for  once,  Henry. 
Very  nice,  indeed.  Dear  me,  Mother,  why  this  gaudiness? 
People  coming  to  dinner  ?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  brooch. 

"No,  dear.  .  .  .  No  one.  I  just  thought  I'd  put  it  on. 
I  haven't  worn  it  for  quite  a  time.  Not  for  a  year  at  least." 

"Very  pretty,  very  pretty,"  he  cried.  "Dear  me,  what  a 
day  I've  had !  So  busy,  scarcely  able  to  breathe !" 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  Father?"  asked  Henry. 

"One  thing  and  another.  One  thing  and  another,"  said 
George  airily.  "Day  simply  flown." 

He  stood  there  in  front  of  the  fire,  his  legs  spread,  his  huge 
chest  flung  out,  his  face  flaming  like  the  sun. 

"Yes,  it's  been  a  very  pleasant  day,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard, 
"very  pleasant." 

"Where's  Katie?"  asked  her  father.  "She's  generally 
down  before  anyone." 


THE  TRENCHARDS  389 

Henry,  who,  in  the  contemplation  of  his  mother,  had  for- 
gotten, for  the  moment,  his  sister's  strange  behaviour,  said: 

"Oh!  she'll  be  late,  I  expect.  I  saw  her  go  out  about 
seven.  Had  to  see  Penhaligan  about  something  important, 
she  told  me.  Went  out  into  all  that  storm." 

As  he  spoke  eight  o'clock  struck. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  looked  up. 

"Went  out  to  see  Penhaligan  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Mother.     She  didn't  tell  me  why." 

Aunt  Betty  came  in.  Her  little  body,  her  cheerful  smile, 
her  air  as  of  one  who  was  ready  to  be  pleased  with  anything, 
might  lead  a  careless  observer  into  the  error  of  supposing  that 
she  was  a  quite  ordinary  old  maid  with  a  fancy  for  knitting, 
the  Church  of  England,  and  hot  water  with  her  meals.  He 
would  be  wrong  in  his  judgment;  her  sharp  little  eyes,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  betrayed  a  sense  of  humour  that,  al- 
though it  had  never  been  encouraged  by  the  family,  provided 
much  wise  penetration  and  knowledge.  Any  casual  acquain- 
tance in  half  an  hour's  talk  would  have  discovered  in  Aunt 
Betty  wisdom  and  judgment  to  which  her  own  family  would, 
until  the  day  of  its  decent  and  honourable  death,  be  entirely 
blind. 

Just  now  she  had  lost  her  spectacles. 

"My  spectacles,"  she  said.  "Hum-hum — Very  odd.  I 
had  them  just  before  tea.  I  was  working  over  in  that  cor- 
ner— I  never  moved  from  there  except  once  when — when — 
Oh !  there  they  are !  No,  they  are  not.  And  I  played  'Pa- 
tience' there,  too,  in  the  same  corner.  Very  odd." 

"Perhaps,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard,  "you  left  them  in 
you  bedroom." 

"No,  Harriet,  I  looked  there.  Hum-hum-hum.  Very 
odd  it  is,  because — " 

Millie  came  in  and  then  Aunt  Aggie. 

"Is  Father  coming  down  to-night?"  said  George, 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard.  "He  said  that  he  felt  better. 
Thought  it  would  be  nice  to  come  down.  Yes,  that  it  would 


390  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

be  rather  nice.  .  .  .  Aggie,  dear,  that's  your  sewing,  isn't  it  ? 
You  left  it  here  this  morning.  Rocket  put  it  between  the 
pages  of  my  novel  to  mark  the  place.  I  knew  it  was  yours — " 

"Yes,  it's  mine,"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  shortly. 

Meanwhile  Henry,  looking  at  the  door,  waited  for  Kath- 
erine.  A  strange  premonition  was  growing  in  him  that  all 
was  not  well.  Katherine  and  Philip,  they  had  not  appeared 
— Katherine  and  Philip.  ...  As  he  thought  of  it,  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  had  not  heard  Philip  moving  as  he 
dressed.  Philip's  room  was  next  to  Henry's,  and  the  division 
was  thin ;  you  could  always  hear  coughs,  steps,  the  pouring  of 
water,  the  opening  and  shutting  of  drawers. 

There  had  been  no  sounds  to-night.  Henry's  heart  began 
to  beat  very  fast.  He  listened  to  the  wind  that,  now  that  the 
storm  had  swung  away,  was  creeping  around  the  house,  try- 
ing the  doors  and  windows,  rattling  something  here,  tugging 
at  something  there,  all  the  pipes  gurgled  and  spluttered  with 
the  waters  of  the  storm. 

"Ah!  there  they  are!"  cried  Aunt  Betty. 

Henry  started,  thinking  that  she  must  herald  the  entry  of 
Katherine  and  Philip;  but  no,  it  was  only  the  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  lying  miraculously  beneath  the  sofa. 

"Now,  how"  cried  Aunt  Betty,  "did  they  get  there ?  Very 
odd,  because  I  remember  distinctly  that  I  never  moved  from 
my  corner." 

"Well,"  said  George  Trenchard,  who,  now  that  his  back 
was  warmed  by  the  fire,  wanted  his  front  warmed  too,  "how 
much  longer  are  we  to  wait  for  dinner?  Katie  and  Philip. 
Playing  about  upstairs,  I  suppose." 

Quarter-past  eight  struck,  and  Rocket,  opening  the  door, 
announced  that  dinner  was  ready. 

"Suppose  you  just  go  up  and  see  what  Katie's  doing,  Millie 
dear,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard. 

Millie  left  them  and  ran  quickly  upstairs.  She  pushed 
back  Katie's  door,  then,  stepping  inside,  the  darkness  and  si- 
lence and  a  strange  murmurous  chill  caught  her,  as  though 


THE  TRESTCHARDS  391 

someone  had  leapt,  out  of  the  dusk,  at  her  throat.  She  knew 
then  instantly  what  had  occurred.  She  only  said  once,  very 
softly,  "Katie!"  then  gently  closed  the  door  behind  her,  as 
though  she  did  not  want  anyone  else  to  see  the  room. 

She  stayed  there;  there,  beside  the  door,  for  quite  a  long 
time.  The  room  was  very  dark,  but  the  looking-glass  glim- 
mered like  a  white,  flickering  shadow  blown  by  the  wet  wind 
that  came  in  through  the  open  window.  Something  flapped 
monotonously. 

Millie,  standing  quite  motionless  by  the  door,  thought  to 
herself  "Katherine  and  Philip!  They've  done  it!  ...  at 
last,  they've  done  it !"  At  first,  because  she  was  very  young 
and  still  believed  in  freedom  and  adventure  as  the  things  best 
worth  having  in  life,  she  felt  nothing  but  a  glad,  triumphant 
excitement ;  an  excitement  springing  not  only  from  her  pleas- 
use  in  any  brave  movement,  but  also  from  her  reassurance  in 
her  beloved  sister,  her  knowledge  that  after  all  Katherine  did 
believe  in  Love  beyond  every  other  power,  was  ready  to  ven- 
ture all  for  it.  Her  own  impulse  was  to  run  after  them,  as 
fast  as  she  could,  and  declare  her  fidelity  to  them. 

At  last  she  moved  away  from  the  door  to  the  dressing-table 
and  lit  a  candle.  It's  soft  white  flame  for  a  moment  blinded 
her.  She  had  an  instant  of  hesitation ;  perhaps  after  all  she 
had  flown  too  rapidly  to  her  desired  conclusions,  the  two  of 
them  were  waiting  now  in  the  drawing-room  for  her.  .  .  . 
Then  she  saw  Katherine's  note  propped  against  the  looking- 
glass. 

She  took  it  up,  saw  that  it  was  addressed  to  her  mother,  and 
realised,  for  the  first  time,  what  this  would  mean  to  them  all. 
She  saw  then — THE  OLD  ONES — Grandfather,  Mother,  Father, 
Aunt  Sarah,  Aunt  Aggie,  Aunt  Betty.  She  was  sorry  for  them, 
but  she  knew,  as  she  stood  there,  that  she  did  not  care,  really, 
whether  they  were  hurt  or  no.  She  felt  her  own  freedom  de- 
scend upon  her,  there  in  Katie's  room,  like  a  golden,  flaming 
cloud.  This  was  the  moment  for  which,  all  her  life,  she  had 
been  waiting.  The  Old  Ones  had  tried  to  keep  them  and  tie 


392  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

them  down,  but  the  day  of  the  Old  Ones  was  past,  their 
power  was  broken.  It  was  the  New  Generation  that  mattered 
— Katherine  and  Philip,  Millie  and  Henry,  and  all  their 
kind ;  it  was  their  world  and  their  dominion — 

She  suddenly,  alone  there,  with  the  note  in  her  hand, 
danced  a  little  dance,  the  candle-flame  flickering  in  the  breeze 
and  Katherine's  white,  neat  bed  so  cold  and  tidy. 

She  was  not  hard,  she  was  not  cruel — her  own  time  would 
come  when  she  would  cry  for  sympathy  and  would  not  find  it, 
and  must  set  her  teeth  because  her  day  was  past  .  .  .  now 
was  her  day — She  seized  it  fiercely. 

Very  quietly  she  went  downstairs.  .  .  . 

She  opened  the  drawing-room  door :  as  she  entered  all  their 
eyes  met  her  and  she  knew  at  once,  as  she  saw  Henry's,  that 
he  was  expecting  her  announcement. 

She  looked  across  at  her  mother. 

"Katherine's  room's  empty,"  she  said.  "There's  no  one 
there  at  all."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  added :  "There 
was  this  note  for  you,  Mother,  on  her  dressing-table." 

She  went  across  the  room  and  gave  it  to  her  mother.  Her 
mother  took  it ;  no  one  spoke. 

Mrs.  Trenchard  read  it ;  for  a  dreadful  moment  she  thought 
that  she  was  going  to  give  way  before  them  all,  was  going  to 
cry  out,  to  scream,  to  rush  wildly  into  the  road  to  stop  the 
fugitives,  or  slap  Aunt  Aggie's  face.  For  a  dreadful  moment 
the  battle  of  her  whole  life  to  obtain  the  mastery  of  herself 
was  almost  defeated — then,  blindly,  obeying  some  impulse 
with  which  she  could  not  reason,  of  which  she  was  scarcely 
conscious,  some  strong  call  from  a  far  country,  she  won  a 
triumphant  victory. 

"It's  from  Katherine !"  she  said.  "The  child's  mad.  She's 
gone  up  to  London." 

"London!"  George  Trenchard  cried. 

"London!"  cried  Aunt  Aggie. 

"Yes.    With  Philip.     They  have  caught  the  eight  train. 


THE  TRENCHARDS  393 

They  are  to  be  married  to-morrow.  'Because  I  would  not 
let  Philip  go/  she  says.  But  she's  mad — " 

For  an  instant  she  gripped  the  mantelpiece  behind  her. 
She  could  hear  them,  only  from  a  distance,  as  though  their 
voices  were  muffled  by  the  roar  of  sea  or  wind,  their  exclama- 
tions. 

Her  husband  was,  of  course,  useless.  She  despised  him. 
He  cried: 

"They  must  be  stopped!  They  must  be  stopped.  This 
is  impossible !  That  fellow  Mark — one  might  have  guessed ! 
They  must  be  stopped.  At  once !  At  once !" 

"They  can't  be."  She  heard  her  voice  far  away  with  the 
others.  "They  can't  be  stopped.  The  train  left  at  eight 
o'clock,  nearly  half  an  hour  ago.  There's  nothing  to  be  done." 

"But,  of  course,"  cried  George,  "there's  something  to  be 
done.  They  must  be  stopped  at  once.  I'll  go  up  by  the 
next  train." 

"There's  no  train  until  six  to-morrow  morning — and  what 
good  would  you  do  ?  They're  engaged.  You  gave  your  per- 
mission. Katherine's  of  age.  It  is  her  own  affair." 

They  all  cried  out  together.  Their  voices  sounded  to  Mrs. 
Trenchard  like  the  screams  of  children. 

Through  the  confusion  there  came  the  sound  of  an  opening 
door.  They  all  turned,  and  saw  that  it  was  old  Mr.  Tren- 
chard, assisted  by  Rocket. 

"Why  don't  you  come  in  to  dinner  ?"  he  said,  in  his  clear, 
thin  voice.  "I  went  straight  into  the  dining-room  because  I 
was  late,  and  here  you  all  are,  and  it's  nearly  half-past  eight." 

The  same  thought  instantly  struck  them  all.  Grandfather 
must  know  nothing  about  it;  a  very  slight  shock,  they  were 
all  aware,  would  kill  Grandfather,  and  there  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  any  shock  to  him  like  this  amazing  revolt  of  Kath- 
erine's. Therefore  he  must  know  nothing.  Like  bathers 
asserting  themselves  after  the  first  quiver  of  an  icy  plunge, 
they  fought  their  way  to  the  surface. 

Until  Grandfather  was  safely  once  more  alone  in  his  room 


394  THE  GEEEN  MIEEOR 

the  situation  must  be  suspended.  After  all,  there  was  noth- 
ing to  be  done !  He,  because  he  was  feeling  well  that  evening, 
was  intent  upon  his  dinner. 

"What!    Waiting  for  Katherine?"  he  said. 

"Katherine  isn't  coming  down  to  dinner,  Father,"  Mrs. 
Trenchard  said. 

"What,  my  dear?" 

"Katherine  isn't  coming  down  to  dinner." 

"Not  ill,  I  hope." 

"No— a  little  tired." 

George  Trenchard  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  support 
his  part.  When  the  old  man  had  passed  through  the  door, 
George  caught  his  wife's  arm. 

"But,  I  say,"  he  whispered,  "something — " 

She  turned  for  an  instant,  looking  at  him  with  scorn. 

"Nothing !"  she  said.     "It's  too  late." 

They  went  in  to  dinner. 

It  was  fortunate  that  Grandfather  was  hungry;  he  did 
not,  it  seems,  notice  Philip's  absence. 

"Very  nice  to  see  you  down,  Father,"  Mrs.  Trenchard 
said  pleasantly.  "Very  nice  for  us  all." 

"Thank  ye,  my  dear.  Very  agreeable — very  agreeable. 
Quite  myself  this  evening.  That  rheumatism  passed  away, 
so  I  said  to  Rocket,  'Well,  'pon  my  word,  Eocket,  I  think 
I'll  come  down  to-night.'  Livelier  for  us  all  to  be  together. 
Hope  Katie  isn't  ill,  though  ?" 

"No — no — nothing  at  all." 

"I  saw  her  this  morning.     She  seemed  quite  well." 

"A  little  headache,  Father  dear.  She  thought  she  was 
better  by  herself." 

"Dear  Katie — never  do  to  have  her  ill.  Well,  George. 
What's  the  matter  with  'ee?  Looking  quite  hipped.  Dig 
your  father  in  the  ribs,  Millie,  my  dear,  and  cheer  him  up  a 
bit." 

So  seldom  was  old  Mr.  Trenchard  in  his  merry  mood,  and 
so  difficult  of  him  to  be  in  it  now.  So  often  he  was  con- 


THE  TRENCHARDS  395 

suined  with  his  own  thoughts,  his  death,  perhaps,  the  present 
degradation  of  the  world,  the  tyranny  of  aches  and  pains, 
impatience  with  the  monotonous  unvariety  of  relations,  past 
Trenchard  glories,  old  scenes  and  days  and  hours  .  .  .  he, 
thus  caught  up  into  his  own  life,  would  be  blind  to  them  all. 
But  to-night,  pleased  with  his  food  because  he  was  hungry, 
and  because  his  body  was  not  paining  him  anywhere  just 
now,  he  was  interested  in  them.  His  bright  little  eyes  darted 
all  about  the  table. 

There  came  at  last  the  question  that  they  dreaded : 
"Why,  where's  the  young  man  ?     Katie's  young  man  ?" 
A  moment's  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Trenchard  said  qui- 
etly, and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  new  "girl,"  introduced  into 
the  house  only  last  week  and  fresh  to  the  mysteries  of  a  din- 
ner-table : 

"He's  dining  with  Timothy  to-night,  Father." 
Rocket  could  be  heard  whispering  to  Lucy,  the  'girl* : 
"Potatoes  first — then  the  sauce." 

Of  them  all,  it  was  George  Trenchard  who  covered  with 
least  success  the  yawning  chasm,  even  Aunt  Betty,  although 
her  hands  shook  as  she  crumbled  her  bread,  had  not  sur- 
rendered her  control. 

But  for  George  this  was  the  first  blow,  in  all  his  life,  to 
reach  his  heart.  Nothing  really  had  ever  touched  him  before. 
And  he  could  not  understand  it — he  simply  could  not  under- 
stand it.  It  had  been  as  sudden  as  an  earthquake,  and  then, 
after  all,  there  had  been  nothing  to  be  done.  That  was  the  aw- 
ful thing.  There  had  been  nothing  to  be  done.  ...  It  was  also 
so  mysterious.  Nothing  had  ever  been  mysterious  to  him  be- 
fore. He  had  been  dimly  aware  that  during  these  last  months 
all  had  not  been  well,  but  he  had  pursued  his  old  safe  plan, 
namely,  that  if  you  didn't  mention  things  and  just  smiled 
upon  life  without  inviting  it  to  approach  you  closely,  all 
would,  in  the  end,  be  well. 

But  now  he  could  no  longer  hold  aloof — he  was  in  the  mid- 
dle of  something,  as  surely  as  though  he  had  been  plunged 


396  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

into  a  deep  tub  of  tossing,  foaming  water.  Katherine  .  .  . 
Katie  .  .  .  dear,  devoted  Katie  .  .  .  who  had  always  loved 
him  and  done  as  he  wished ;  Katie,  nearest  of  all  human  be- 
ings to  his  heart,  and  nearest  because  he  had  always  known 
that  she  cared  for  him  more  than  for  any  other  human  being. 
And  now  it  was  obvious  that  that  was  not  so,  it  was  obvious 
that  she  cared  more  for  that  young  man,  that  abominable 
young  man.  .  .  .  O,  damn  it!  damn  it!  damn  it!  Kather- 
ine was  gone,  and  for  no  reason,  for  nothing  at  all  except 
pride  and  impatience.  Already,  as  he  sat  there,  he  was  won- 
dering how  soon,  by  any  means  whatever,  he  could  establish 
pleasant  relations  with  her,  and  so  make  his  life  comfort- 
able once  more.  But,  beyond  Katherine,  there  was  his  wife. 
What  was  he  to  do  about  Harriet  ?  For  so  many  years  now 
he  had  decided  that  the  only  way  to  deal  comfortably  with 
Harriet  was  not  to  deal  with  her,  and  this  had  seemed  to  work 
so  well  .  .  .  but  now  .  .  .  now  ...  he  must  deal  with  her. 
He  saw  that  she  was  in  terrible  distress;  he  knew  her  well 
enough  to  be  sure  of  that.  He  would  have  liked  to  have 
helped  and  comforted  her;  it  really  distressed  him  to  see 
anyone  in  pain,  but  he  discovered  now,  with  a  sharp  surprise, 
that  she  was  a  complete  stranger,  that  he  did  not  know  any 
more  about  the  real  Harriet  Trenchard  than  he  did  about 
Lucy,  the  maid-servant.  There  was  approaching  him  that 
awful  moment  when  he  would  be  compelled  to  draw  close  to 
her  ...  he  was  truly  terrified  of  this. 

It  was  a  terrible  dinner  for  all  of  them ;  once  Lucy  dropped 
a  knife,  and  they  started,  all  of  them,  as  though  a  bomb  had 
screamed  through  the  ceiling.  And  perhaps,  to  the  older 
ones,  there  was  nothing  in  it  more  alarming  than  the  eyes, 
the  startled,  absorbed  and  challenging  eyes,  of  Millie  and 
Henry.  .  .  . 

Slowly,  as  the  dinner  progressed,  old  Mr.  Trenchard  dis- 
covered that  something  was  the  matter.  He  discovered  it  as 
surely  by  the  nervous  laughter  and  chatter  of  Aunt  Betty  as 
by  the  disconcerted  discomfort  of  his  son  George.  His  merri- 


THE  TREXCHARDS  397 

merit  fell  away  from  him ;  ho  loved  'Angels  on  Horseback' — 
to-night  there  were  'Angels  on  Horseback',  and  he  ate 
them  with  a  peevish  irritation.  Whatever  was  the  matter 
now  ?  He  felt  lost  without  Sarah ;  she  knew  when  and  why 
things  were  the  matter  more  quickly  than  anyone,  aware  of 
her  deafness,  would  consider  possible.  But  before  he  was 
assisted  from  the  table  he  was  sure  that  the  "something"  was 
connected  with  his  dear  Katherine.  .  .  .  The  men  did  not 
stay  behind  to-night.  In  the  hall  they  were  grouped  together, 
on  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  waiting  for  the  old  man's 
slow  progress. 

He  paused  suddenly  beside  the  staircase. 

"George,"  he  said,  "George,  just  run  up  and  see  how 
Katie  is.  Give  her  my  love,  will  'ee  ?" 

George  turned,  his  face  white.    Mrs.  Trenchard  said : 

"She's  probably  asleep,  Father.  With  her  headache — it 
would  be  a  pity  to  wake  her." 

At  that  moment  the  hall  door  pushed  slowly  open,  and 
there,  the  wind  eddying  behind  him,  his  ulster  up  over  his 
neck,  his  hair  and  beard  wet  with  the  rain,  stood  Uncle 
Timothy. 

"Hullo !"  he  cried,  seeing  them  all  grouped  together.  But 
old  Mr.  Trenchard  called  to  him  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
now  with  some  troubled  anticipation: 

"Why,  your  dinner's  soon  done  ?  Where's  the  young  man  ?" 

Uncle  Timothy  stared  at  them;  he  looked  round  at  them, 
then,  at  a  loss  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  stammered :  "Why, 
don't  you  know  .  .  .  ?" 

The  old  man  turned,  his  stick  shaking  in  his  hand: 
"Where's  Katherine?  Katie.  .  .  .  What's  happened  to 
Katie  ?  What's  this  mean  ?" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  looked  at  him,  then  said: 

"It's  all  right,  Father— really.     It's  quite  all  right." 

"It's  not  all  right."  Fright  like  the  terror  of  a  child  alone 
in  the  dark  was  in  his  eyes.  "What  have  you  done  with  her  ?" 

Her  voice  cold,  without  moving,  she  answered : 


3J8  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Katherine  went  up  by  the  eight  o'clock  train  to  London 
with  Philip.  She  has  gone  to  Rachel  Seddon." 

"With  Philip  ?  .  .  .  What  do  you  say  ?    I  can't  hear  you." 

"Yes.     She  is  to  stay  with  Rachel  Seddon." 

"But  why  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  Why  did  you  tell  me 
lies?" 

"We  have  done  nothing.  We  did  not  know  that  she  was 
going." 

"You  didn't  know  ?  .  .  .  then  she's  left  us  ?" 

Mrs.  Trenchard  said  nothing. 

He  cried:  "I  told  him — what  it  would  he — if  he  took 
her  ...  Katie!" 

Then,  his  stick  dropping  with  a  rattle  on  to  the  stone  floor, 
he  fell  back.  Rocket  caught  him. 

There  was  a  movement  forward,  but  Mrs.  Trenchard,  say- 
ing swiftly,  "George  .  .  .  Rocket,"  had  swept  them  all  out- 
side the  figure — the  figure  of  an  old,  broken,  tumbled-to-pieces 
man,  held  now  by  his  son  and  Rocket,  huddled,  with  his  white, 
waxen  hand  trailing  across  George  Trenchard's  strong  arm. 

Harriet  Trenchard  said  to  her  brother: 

"You  knew !"  then  turned  up  the  stairs. 

In  the  drawing-room  Aunt  Aggie,  Aunt  Betty,  Millie  and 
Henry  faced  Uncle  Timothy. 

"Well !"  said  Aunt  Aggie,  "so  you  know  all  about  it.  ... 
You've  killed  Father!"  she  ended  with  a  grim,  malignant 
triumph. 

He  answered  fiercely:  "Yes,  I  knew.  That's  why  I 
came.  She  said  that  she  would  send  up  a  note  from  the  vil- 
lage. I  thought  that  you  wouldn't  have  heard  it  yet.  I 
came  up  to  explain." 

They  all  burst  upon  him  then  with  questions : 

"What?"  "Did  you  see  her?"  "What  did  she  say?" 
"Where  was  she  ?" 

"Of  course  I  saw  her.  She  came  to  me  before  she  went 
off." 

"She  came  and  you  didn't  stop  her!"     This  from  Aunt 


THE  TKENCHAKDS  399 

Aggie.     He  turned  then  and  addressed  himself  solely  to  her. 

"No.     I  didn't  stop  her.     I  gave  her  my  blessing." 

Aunt  Aggie  would  have  spoken,  but  he  went  on:  "Yes, 
and  it's  you — you  and  Harriet  and  the  others — who  are 
responsible.  I  warned  Harriet  months  ago,  but  she  wouldn't 
listen.  What  did  you  expect?  Do  you  think  the  world's 
always  going  on  made  for  you  and  you  alone?  The  more 
life's  behind  you  the  more  important  you  think  you  are, 
whereas  it  doesn't  matter  a  damn  to  anybody  what  you've 
done  compared  with  what  others  are  going  to  do.  You 
thought  you  could  tie  Katherine  and  Philip  down,  take  away 
their  freedom  ?  Well,  you  couldn't,  that's  all." 

"Yes,"  cried  Aunt  Aggie,  who  was  shaking  with  anger, 
''it's  such  doctrines  as  yours,  Timothy,  that  lead  to  Katherine 
and  others  doing  the  dreadful  things  they  do.  It's  all  free- 
dom now  and  such  words,  and  young  men  like  Mr.  Mark,  who 
don't  fear  God  and  have  no  morals  and  make  reprobates  of 
themselves  and  all  around  them,  can  do  what  they  please,  I 
suppose.  You  talk  about  common-sense,  but  what  about 
God?  What  about  the  Commandments  and  duty  to  your 
parents  ?  They  may  think  what  they  like  abroad,  but, 
Heaven  be  praised,  there  are  some  of  us  still  in  England  who 
know  our  duty." 

He  had  recovered  his  control  before  she  ended  her  speech. 
He  smiled  at  her. 

"The  time  will  come,"  he  answered,  "and  I  daresay  it  isn't 
so  distant  as  you  think,  when  you  and  you  fellow-patriots, 
Aggie,  will  learn  that  England  isn't  all  alone,  on  her  fine 
moral  pedestal,  any  longer.  There  won't  be  any  pedestal, 
and  you  and  your  friends  will  have  to  wake  up  and  realise 
that  the  world's  pushed  a  bit  closer  together  now-a-days,  that 
you've  got  to  use  your  eyes  a  bit,  or  you'll  get  jostled  out  of 
existence.  The  world's  going  to  be  for  the  young  and  the 
independent  and  the  unprejudiced,  not  the  old  and  narrow- 
minded. 

"Philip  Mark's  woken  you  all  up,  and  thank  God  he  has  1" 


400  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

"Heaven  forgive  you,"  Aunt  Aggie  answered,  "for  taking 
His  name.  You've  got  terrible  things  to  answer  to  Him  for, 
Timothy,  when  the  time  comes." 

"I'm  not  afraid,  Aggie,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  Millie  who  spoke  the  final  word. 

"Oh,  what  are  you  all  talking  about !"  she  broke  in.  "What 
does  it  matter  who's  good  or  bad  or  right  or  wrong.  It's 
Katie's  happiness  that  matters,  nothing  else.  Of  course, 
she's  gone.  She  ought  to  have  gone  months  ago.  You  all 
wanted  to  make  her  and  Phil  live  your  life  just  as  you  wished 
it,  and  Phil,  because  he  loved  Katie  so  much,  was  ready  to, 
but  why  should  they?  You  say  you  all  loved  her,  but  I 
think  it  was  just  selfishness.  I've  been  as  bad  as  the  rest 
of  you.  I've  been  thinking  of  myself  more  than  Katie,  but 
at  heart  now  I'm  glad,  and  I  hope  they'll  be  happy,  happy  for 
ever." 

"And  your  Mother?"  said  Aunt  Aggie.  "Did  Katherine 
owe  her  nothing?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Millie,  stoutly,  "but  she  didn't  owe  her 
all  her  life.  Mother's  still  got  her  if  she  wants  her.  Katie 
will  never  change — she  isn't  that  kind.  It's  mother's  pride 
that's  hurt,  not  her  love." 

Aunt  Betty,  who  had  been  quite  silent,  said : 

"I  do  indeed  hope  that  she  will  be  very  happy  .  .  .  but 
life  will  never  be  the  same  again.  We  mustn't  be  selfish,  of 
course,  but  we  shall  miss  her — terribly." 

At  a  later  hour  George  Trenchard,  in  pyjamas  and  a  dress- 
ing gown,  knocked  on  his  wife's  door.  She  opened  it,  and 
he  found  her  fully  clothed ;  she  had,  it  seemed  to  him,  been 
reading. 

He  looked  at  her ;  he  felt  very  wretched  and  uncomfortable. 

"Father's  asleep,"  he  said. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  answered. 

"I  think  he'll  be  none  the  worse  in  the  morning." 

"I  hope  not.     Dr.  Pierson  seemed  reassured." 


THE  TRENCHARDS  401 

There  was  a  pause;  in  spite  of  his  bedroom  slippers,  his 
feet  were  cold. 

"Harriet." 

"Yes,  George." 

"I  only  wanted  to  say — well,  I  don't  know — only  that — 
I'm  sorry  if  this — this  business  of  Katherine's — has  been  a 
great  blow  to  you." 

Her  mind  returned  to  that  day,  now  so  long  ago,  when, 
after  her  visit  to  the  Stores,  she  had  gone  to  his  study.  Their 
position  now  was  reversed.  But  she  was  tired;  she  did  not 
care.  George  did  not  exist  for  her. 

"It  has  surprised  me,  of  course,"  she  answered,  in  her 
even,  level  voice.  "I  thought  Katherine  cared  more  for  us 
all  than  she  has  shown  that  she  does.  I  certainly  thought  so. 
Perhaps  my  pride  is  hurt." 

By  making  this  statement — not  especially  to  George,  but 
to  the  world  in  general — she  could  say  to  herself:  "You  see 
how  honest  you  are.  You  are  hiding  nothing." 

He  meanwhile  hated  his  position,  but  was  driven  on  by  a 
vague  sense  that  she  needed  comfort,  and  that  he  ought  to 
give  it  her. 

"See  here,  Harriet,"  he  said,  awkwardly,  "perhaps  it  needn't 
be  so  bad.  Nothing  very  terrible's  happened,  I  mean.  After 
all,  they  were  going  to  marry  anyway.  They've  only  done  it 
a  bit  sooner.  They  might  have  told  us,  it's  true — they  ought 
to  have  told  us — but,  after  all,  young  people  will  be  young 
people,  won't  they?  We  can't  be  very  angry  with  them. 
And  young  Mark  isn't  quite  an  Englishman,  you  know.  Been 
abroad  so  long." 

As  he  spoke  he  dwindled  and  dwindled  before  her  until  his 
huge,  healthy  body  seemed  like  a  little  speck,  a  fly,  crawling 
upon  the  distant  wall. 

"Nothing  very  terrible's  happened"  .  .  .  "Nothing  very 
terrible's  happened"  .  .  .  "NOTHING  VERY  TEKBIBLE'S  HAP- 
PENED." 

George,  who,  during  these  many  years  had  been  very  little 


402  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

in  her  life,  disappeared,  as  he  made  that  speech,  utterly  and 
entirely  out  of  it.  He  was  never  to  figure  in  it  again,  but 
he  did  not  know  that. 

He  suddenly  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  old  sofa  and  put 
his  arm  round  her.  She  did  not  move. 

They  sat  there  in  utter  silence.  At  last  desperately,  as 
though  he  were  committing  the  crime  of  his  life,  he  kissed 
her.  She  patted  his  hand. 

"You  look  tired,"  he  said,  feeling  an  immense  relief,  now 
that  he  had  done  his  duty.  "You  go  to  bed." 

"Good  night,  George  dear,"  she  said. 

He  raised  his  big  body  from  the  sofa,  smiled  at  her  and 
padded  away.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  gone  and  she  was  alone,  for  a  terrible  time 
she  fought  her  defeat.  She  knew  now  quite  clearly  that  her 
ruling  passion  during  all  these  months  had  not  been,  as  she 
had  supposed,  her  love  of  Katherine,  but  her  hatred  of  Philip. 

From  the  first  moment  of  seeing  him  she  had  known  him 
for  her  enemy.  He  had  been,  although  at  the  time  she  had 
not  realised  it,  the  very  figure  whose  appearance,  all  her  life, 
she  had  dreaded ;  that  figure,  from  outside,  of  whose  coming 
Timothy  had  long  ago  prophesied.  How  she  had  hated  him ! 
From  the  very  first  she  had  made  her  plans,  influencing  the 
others  against  him,  watching  how  she  might  herself  most  se- 
curely influence  him  against  himself,  breaking  in  his  will, 
using  Katherine  against  him ;  finally,  when  Seymour  had  told 
her  the  scandal,  how  she  had  treasured  it  up  for  the  moment 
when  he,  because  of  his  love  for  Katherine,  should  be  com- 
pletely delivered  over  to  her! 

And  the  moment  had  come.  She  had  had  her  triumph! 
She  had  seen  his  despair  in  his  eyes !  She  had  got  him,  she 
thought,  securely  for  ever  and  ever. 

Then  how  she  had  known  what  she  would  do  in  the  future, 
the  slave  that  she  would  make  of  him,  the  ways  that  she  would 


THE  TRENCHARDS  403 

trouble  him  with  Katherine,  with  that  Russian  woman,  with 
Aggie,  with  all  of  them! 

Ah !  it  had  been  so  perfect !  and — at  the  very  moment  of 
her  triumph — he  had  escaped  I 

That  love  for  Katherine  that  had  been  a  true  motive  in 
her  earlier  life,  a  true  motive  even  until  six  months  ago,  was 
now  converted  into  a  cold,  implacable  resentment,  because  it 
was  Katherine  who  had  opened  the  door  of  Philip's  cage. 
Strange  the  complexities  of  the  human  heart!  That  very 
day,  as  she  won  her  triumph  she  had  loved  her  daughter. 
She  had  thought :  "Now  that  I  have  beaten  him  I  can  take 
you  back  to  my  heart.  We  can  be,  my  dear,  as  we  used 
to  be" — but  now,  had  Katherine  entered  the  room,  she  would 
have  been  spurned,  dismissed  for  ever. 

In  the  lust  of  love  there  is  embedded,  as  the  pearl  is  em- 
bedded in  its  shell,  a  lust  of  hate.  Very  closely  they  are 
pressed  together.  Mrs.  Trenchard  was  beaten — beaten  by 
her  daughter,  by  a  new  generation,  by  a  new  world,  by  a  new 
age — beaten  in  the  very  moment  of  her  victory. 

She  would  never  forgive. 

What  was  left  to  her  ? 

Her  heart  was  suddenly  empty  of  love,  of  hatred,  of  tri- 
umph, of  defeat.  She  was  tired  and  lonely.  Somewhere, 
dimly,  from  the  passage,  the  cuckoo-clock  proclaimed  the 
hour. 

The  house !  That  at  least  was  left  to  her.  These  rooms, 
these  roofs,  the  garden,  the  village,  the  fields,  the  hedges  the 
roads  to  the  sea.  The  Place  had  not  deceived  her,  had  not 
shared  in  the  victory  over  her;  it  had,  rather,  shared  in  her 
defeat. 

It  seemed,  as  she  stood  there,  to  come  up  to  her,  to  wel- 
come her,  to  console  her. 

She  put  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders,  went  softly  through 
the  dark  passages,  down  into  the  drawing-room. 

There,  feeling  her  way,  she  found  candles  and  lit  them. 
She  went  to  her  cabinet,  opened  drawers,  produced  papers, 


404  THE  GEEEN  MIEEOE 

plans,  rows  of  figures.  Here  was  a  plan  of  a  new  barn 
behind  the  house,  here  the  addition  of  a  conservatory  to  the 
drawing-room.  Before  her  was  a  map  of  South  Glebeshire, 
with  the  roads,  the  fields,  the  farms.  She  began  to  work, 
adding  figures,  following  the  plans,  writing.  .  .  . 

The  light  of  the  summer  morning  found  her  working  there 
in  the  thin  candle-light. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  CEREMONY 

AT  about  half-past  four  upon  the  afternoon  of  Novem- 
ber 8th,  1903,  the  drawing-room  of  No.  5  Rundle 
Square  Westminster,  was  empty.  November  8th  was,  of 
course,  Grandfather  Trenchard's  birthday ;  a  year  ago  on  that 
day  Philip  Mark  had  made  his  first  entrance  into  the  Tren- 
chard  fastnesses.  This  Eighth  of  November,  1903,  did  not, 
in  the  manner  of  weather,  repeat  the  Eighth  of  November, 
1902.  There  had  been,  a  year  ago,  the  thickest  of  fogs,  now 
there  was  a  clear,  mildly  blue  November  evening,  with  the 
lamps  like  faint  blurs  of  light  against  a  sky  in  which  tiny 
stars  sparkled  on  a  background  that  was  almost  white.  It 
was  cold  enough  to  be  jolly,  and  there  was  a  thin  wafer-like 
frost  over  the  pools  and  gutters. 

A  large  fire  roared  in  the  fireplace;  the  room  seemed 
strangely  altered  since  that  day  when  Henry  had  read  his 
novel  and  thought  of  his  forests!  In  what  lay  the  alteration  ? 
The  old  green  carpet  was  still  there ;  in  front  of  the  fireplace 
was  a  deep  red  Turkey  rug — but  it  was  not  the  rug  that 
changed  the  room.  The  deep  glass-fronted  bookcases  were 
still  there,  with  the  chilly  and  stately  classics  inside  them; 
on  the  round  table  there  were  two  novels  with  gaudy  red  and 
blue  covers.  One  novel  was  entitled  "The  Lovely  Mrs.  Tem- 
pest", the  other  "The  Mystery  of  Dovecote  Mill" — but  it 
was  not  the  novels  that  changed  the  room.  The  portraits 
of  deceased  Trenchards,  weighted  with  heavy  gold,  still  hung 
upon  the  walls ;  there  was  also,  near  the  fireplace,  a  gay  water- 
colour  of  some  place  on  the  Riviera,  with  a  bright  parasol 

405 


406  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

in  the  foreground  and  the  bluest  of  all  blue  seas  in  the  back- 
ground— but  it  was  not  the  water-colour  that  changed  the 
room. 

No,  the  change  lay  here — the  Mirror  was  gone. 

After  Henry  had  broken  it,  there  was  much  discussion 
as  to  whether  it  should  be  mended.  Of  course  it  would  be 
mended — but  when? — Well,  soon.  Meanwhile  it  had  bet- 
ter be  out  of  the  way  somewhere  ...  it  had  remained  out  of 
the  way.  Until  it  should  be  restored,  Sir  George  Trenchard, 
K.C.B.,  1834-1896,  a  stout  gentleman  with  side  whiskers, 
hung  in  its  place. 

Meanwhile  it  would  never  be  restored.  People  would  for- 
get it;  people  wanted  to  forget  it  ...  the  Mirror's  day  was 
over. 

It  was,  of  course,  impossible  for  Sir  George  Trenchard  to 
reflect  the  room  in  his  countenance  or  in  his  splendid  suit  of 
clothes,  and  the  result  of  this  was  that  the  old  room  that  had 
gathered  itself  so  comfortably,  with  its  faded  and  mossy 
green,  into  the  shining  embrace  of  the  Mirror,  had  now  no- 
where for  its  repose;  it  seemed  now  an  ordinary  room,  and 
the  spots  of  colour — the  Turkey  rug,  the  novels,  the  water- 
colour,  broke  up  the  walls  and  the  carpet,  flung  light  here 
and  light  there,  shattered  that  earlier  composed  remoteness, 
proclaimed  the  room  a  comfortable  place  that  had  lost  its 
tradition. 

The  Room  was  broken  up — the  Mirror  was  in  the  cellar. 

Henry  came  in.  He  had  had  permission  to  abandon — for 
one  night — his  labours  at  Cambridge  to  assist  in  the  celebra- 
tion of  his  grandfather's  birthday,  the  last,  perhaps,  that 
there  would  be,  because  the  old  man  now  was  very  broken 
and  ill.  He  had  never  recovered  from  the  blow  of  Katherine's 
desertion. 

The  first  thing  that  Henry  had  done  on  his  arrival  in  Lon- 
don had  been  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Philip  Mark.  Katherine 
and  Philip  lived  in  a  little  flat  in  Knightsbridge — Park 
Place — and  a  delightful  little  flat  it  was.  This  was  not  the 


THE  CEKEMONY  '  407 

first  visit  that  Henry  had  paid  there;  George  Trenchard, 
Millie,  Aunt  Betty  had  also  been  there — there  had  been  sev- 
eral merry  tea-parties. 

The  marriage  had  been  a  great  success;  the  only  thing 
that  marred  it  for  Katherine  was  her  division  from  her 
mother.  Mrs.  Trenchard  was  relentless.  She  would  not 
see  Katherine,  she  would  not  read  her  letters,  she  would  not 
allow  her  name  to  be  mentioned  in  her  presence.  Secretly, 
one  by  one,  the  others  had  crept  off  to  the  Knightsbridge 
flat  .  .  .  They  gave  no  sign  of  their  desertion.  Did  she 
know  ?  She  also  gave  no  sign. 

But  Katherine  would  not  abandon  hope.  The  time  must 
come  when  her  mother  needed  her.  She  did  not  ask  ques- 
tions of  the  others,  but  she  saw  her  mother  lonely,  aged,  mis- 
erable; she  saw  this  from  no  conceit  of  herself,  but  simply 
because  she  knew  that  she  had,  for  so  many  years,  been  the 
centre  of  her  mother's  life.  Her  heart  ached ;  she  lay  awake, 
crying,  at  night,  and  Philip  would  strive  to  console  her  but 
could  not.  Nevertheless,  through  all  her  tears,  she  did  not 
regret  what  she  had  done.  She  would  do  it  again  did  the 
problem  again  arise.  Philip  was  a  new  man,  strong,  happy, 
reliant,  wise  .  .  .  she  had  laid  the  ghosts  for  him.  He  was 
hers,  as  though  he  had  been  her  child. 

Henry,  upon  this  afternoon,  was  clearly  under  the  influ- 
ence of  great  excitement.  He  entered  the  drawing-room  as 
though  he  were  eager  to  deliver  important  news,  and  then, 
seeing  that  no  one  was  there,  he  uttered  a  little  exclamation 
and  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  Anyone  might  see  that  a 
few  weeks  of  Cambridge  life  had  worked  a  very  happy  change 
in  Henry;  much  of  his  crudity  was  gone.  One  need  not 
now  be  afraid  of  what  he  would  do  next,  and  because  he  was 
himself  aware  of  this  development  much  of  his  awkwardness 
had  left  him. 

His  clothes  were  neat;  his  hair  was  brushed.  He  might 
still  yield  at  any  moment  to  his  old  impetuosities,  his  despairs 
and  his  unjustified  triumphs,  but  there  would  now  be  some 


408  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

further  purpose  beyond  them ;  he  would  know  now  that  there 
were  more  mportant  things  in  life  than  his  moods. 

He  looked  at  the  place  where  the  Mirror  had  been  and 
blushed ;  then  he  frowned.  Yes,  he  had  lost  his  temper  badly 
that  day,  but  Philip  had  had  such  an  abominable  way  of 
showing  him  how  young  he  was,  how  little  of  life  he  knew. 
All  the  same,  Philip  wasn't  a  bad  sort, — and  he  did  love 
Katie — 'like  anything !' 

Henry  himself  thrilled  with  the  consciousness  of  the  things 
that  he  intended  to  do  in  life.  He  had  attended  a  debate 
at  the  Cambridge  Union,  and  himself,  driven  by  what  des- 
perate impulse  he  did  not  know,  had  spoken  a  few  words. 
From  that  moment  he  had  realised  what  life  held  in  store 
for  him.  He  had  discovered  other  eager  spirits;  they  met 
at  night  and  drank  cocoa  together.  They  intended  nothing 
less  than  the  redemption  of  the  world;  their  Utopian  City 
shone  upon  no  distant  hill.  They  called  themselves  the 
Crusaders,  and  some  time  before  the  end  of  the  term  the 
first  number  of  a  periodical  written  by  them  was  to  startle 
the  world.  Henry  was  the  Editor.  His  first  Editorial  was 
entitled:  "Freedom:  What  it  is". 

And  only  a  year  ago  he  had  sat  in  this  very  room  reading 
that  novel  and  wondering  whether  life  would  ever  open  be- 
fore him.  It  had  opened — it  was  opening  before  them  all. 
He  did  not  know  that  it  had  been  opening  thus  for  many  thou- 
sands of  years.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  past ;  he  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  future ;  but  he  saw  his  City  rising,  so  pure  and  of 
marvellous  promise,  before  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

As  he  looked  back  over  the  past  year  and  surveyed  the  fam- 
ily, it  was  to  him  as  though  an  earthquake  had  blown  them 
all  sky-high.  A  year  ago  they  had  been  united,  as  though 
no  power  could  ever  divide  them.  Well,  the  division  had 
come.  There  was  now  not  one  member  of  the  family  who 
had  not  his,  or  her,  secret  ambitions  and  desires.  Aunt 
Aggie  intended  to  live  in  a  little  flat  by  herself.  She  found 
"the  younger  ones  impossible."  George  Trenchard  bought 


THE  CEEEMONY  409 

land  at  Garth.  Mrs.  Trenchard  intended  to  pull  down  some 
of  the  Garth  house  and  build  a  new  wing. 

She  was  immersed  all  day  in  plans  and  maps  and  figures ; 
even  her  father-in-law's  illness  had  not  interfered  with  her 
determination. 

Millie  had  made  friends  with  a  number  of  independent 
London  ladies,  who  thought  Women's  Suffrage  far  beyond 
either  cleanliness  or  Godliness.  She  talked  to  Henry  about 
her  companions,  who  hoped  for  a  new  City  in  no  very  dis- 
tant future,  very  much  as  Henry's  friends  at  Cambridge  did. 
Only,  the  two  Cities  were  very  different.  Even  Katherine 
and  Philip  were  concerned  in  some  Society  for  teaching  poor 
women  how  to  manage  their  children,  and  Philip  was  also 
interested  in  a  new  Art,  in  which  young  painters  produced 
medical  charts  showing  the  internal  arrangements  of  the 
stomach,  and  called  them  "Spring  on  the  Heath"  or  "Home — 
Midday." 

And  through  all  the  middle-class  families  in  England  these 
things  were  occurring.  "Something  is  coming.  ..." 
"Something  is  coming.  ..."  "Look  out.  ..."  "Look 
out.  ..." 

This  was  in  1903.  Henry,  Millie,  Katherine  had  still 
eleven  years  to  wait  for  their  revolution,  but  in  at  least  one 
corner  of  happy  England  the  work  of  preparation  had  been 
begun. 

The  door  opened,  and  Henry's  reveries  were  interrupted 
by  the  entrance  of  Millie.  He  started,  and  then  jumped  up 
on  seeing  her ;  for  a  moment,  under  the  power  of  his  thoughts, 
he  had  forgotten  his  news;  now  he  stammered  with  the  im- 
portance of  it. 

"Millie!"  he  cried. 

"Hullo,  Henry,"  she  said,  smiling.  "We  expected  you 
hours  ago." 

He  dropped  his  voice.  "I've  been  round  to  see  Katie. 
Look  here,  Millie,  it's  most  important  She's  coming  here 
to  see  Mother." 


410  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

Millie  glanced  behind.  They  carried  on  then  the  rest  of 
their  conversation  in  whispers. 

"To  see  Mother?" 

"Yes.  She  can't  bear  waiting  any  longer.  She  felt  that 
she  must  be  here  on  Grandfather's  birthday." 

"But— but— " 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  she  thinks  that  if  she  sees  Mother 
alone  and  she  can  show  her  that  nothing's  changed — " 

"But  everything's  changed.  She  doesn't  know  how  differ- 
ent Mother  is." 

"No,  but  she  thinks  if  they  both  see  one  another — at  any 
rate  she's  going  to  try." 

"Now?" 

"Yes.  In  a  few  minutes.  I'll  go  up  and  just  tell  Mother 
that  there's  a  caller  in  the  drawing-room.  Then  leave  them 
alone  together — " 

Millie  sighed.  "It  would  be  too  lovely  for  anything  if  it 
really  happened.  But  it  won't — it  can't.  Mother's  extraor- 
dinary. I  don't  believe  she  ever  loved  Katie  at  all,  at  least 
only  as  an  idea.  She'll  never  forgive  her — never — and  she'll 
always  hate  Philip." 

"How's  Grandfather?" 

"Very  bad.  He  says  he  will  come  down  to-night,  although 
it'll  probably  kill  him.  However,  now  they've  arranged  that 
his  presents  shall  be  in  the  little  drawing-room  upstairs. 
Then  he  won't  have  so  far  to  go.  He's  awfully  bad,  really, 
and  he's  as  hard  about  Katie  as  Mother  is.  He  won't  have 
her  name  mentioned.  It's  simply,  /  believe,  that  it's  terrible 
to  him  to  think  that  she  could  love  Philip  better  than  him !" 

"And  how's  everyone  else  ?" 

"Oh,  well,  it's  all  right,  I  suppose.  But  it  isn't  very  nice. 
I'm  going  off  to  live  with  Miss  Emberley  as  soon  as  they'll 
let  me.  Aunt  Aggie's  been  awful.  And  then  one  day  she 
went  suddenly  to  see  Katie,  and  Mother  found  out  somehow. 
Mother  never  said  anything,  but  Aunt  Aggie's  going  to  take 
a  flat  by  herself  somewhere.  And  since  that  she's  been  nicer 


THE  CEREMONY  411 

than  I've  ever  known  her.     Quite  soft  and  good-tempered." 

"Does  Mother  know  that  we  all  go  to  see  Katie  ?" 

"Sometimes  I  think  she  does — sometimes  that  she  doesn't. 
She  never  says  a  word.  She  seems  to  think  of  nothing  but 
improving  the  place  now.  She  must  be  very  lonely,  but  she 
doesn't  show  anyone  anything.  All  the  same  it's  impossible 
without  Katie — I — " 

At- that  moment  the  bell  of  the  hall-door  rang.  They  stood 
silently  there  listening. 

For  a  moment  they  stared  at  one  another,  like  conspirators 
caught  in  the  act  of  their  conspiracy.  The  colour  flooded 
their  cheeks ;  their  hearts  beat  furiously.  Here  and  now  was 
Drama. 

They  heard  Rocket's  footstep,  the  opening  door,  Kather- 
ine's  voice.  They  fled  from  the  room  before  they  could  be 
seen. 

Katherine,  when  she  stood  alone  in  the  room  in  whose  life 
and  intimacy  she  had  shared  for  so  many  years,  stared  about 
her  as  though  she  had  been  a  stranger.  There  was  a  change ; 
in  the  first  place  there  was  now  her  own  room,  made  for  her 
and  for  Philip,  that  absorbed  her  mind ;  in  comparison  with 
it  this  room,  that  had  always  appeared  to  her  comfortable,  con- 
soling, protective,  was  now  old-fashioned  and  a  little  shabby. 
There  were  too  many  things  scattered  about,  old  things, 
neither  beautiful  nor  useful.  Then  the  place  itself  did  not 
seem  to  care  for  her  as  it  had  once  done.  She  was  a  visitor 
now,  and  the  house  knew  it.  Their  mutual  intimacy  had 
ceased. 

But  she  could  not  waste  many  thoughts  upon  the  room. 
This  approaching  interview  with  her  mother  seemed  to  her 
the  supreme  moment  of  her  life.  There  had  been  other  su- 
preme moments  during  the  past  year,  and  she  did  not  realise 
that  she  was  now  better  able  to  deal  with  them  than  she  had 
once  been.  Nevertheless  her  mother  must  forgive  her.  She 
would  not  leave  the  house  until  she  had  been  forgiven.  She 
was  hopeful.  The  success  of  her  marriage  had  given  her 


412  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

much  self-confidence.  The  way  that  the  family  had,  one 
after  another,  come  to  see  her  (yes,  even  Aunt  Aggie)  had  im- 
mensely reassured  her.  Her  mother  was  proud ;  she  needed 
that  submission  should  be  made  to  her. 

Katherine  was  here  to  make  it.  Her  heart  beat  thickly 
with  love  and  the  anticipated  reconciliation. 

She  went,  as  she  had  done  so  many,  many  times,  to  the 
Mirror  over  the  fireplace  to  tidy  herself.  Why !  the  Mirror 
was  not  there!  Of  course  not — that  was  why  the  room 
seemed  so  changed.  She  looked  around  her,  smiled  a  little. 
A  fine  girl,  anyone  seeing  her  there  would  have  thought  her. 
Marriage  had  given  her  an  assurance,  a  self-reliance.  She 
had  shrunk  back  before  because  she  had  been  afraid  of  what 
life  would  be.  Now,  when  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
penetrated  into  the  very  darkest  fastnesses  of  its  secrets,  when 
she  felt  that  nothing  in  the  future  could  surprise  her  ever 
again,  she  shrank  back  no  longer. 

Her  clothes  were  better  than  in  the  old  days,  but  even  now 
they  did  not  fit  her  very  perfectly.  She  was  still,  in  her 
heart,  exactly  the  same  rather  grave,  rather  slow,  very  loving 
Katherine.  She  would  be  stout  in  later  years;  there  were 
already  little  dimples  in  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  were  soft  and 
mild,  as  they  had  ever  been. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Trenchard  entered. 

She  had  expected  some  caller,  and  she  came  forward  a  few 
steps  with  the  smile  of  the  hostess  upon  her  lips.  Then  she 
saw  her  daughter,  and  stopped. 

Katherine  had  risen,  and  stood  facing  her  mother.  With 
a  swift  consternation,  as  though  someone  had  shouted  some 
terrifying  news  into  her  ear,  she  realised  that  her  mother 
was  a  stranger  to  her.  She  had  imagined  many,  many  times 
what  this  interview  would  be.  She  had  often  considered  the 
things  that  she  would  say  and  the  very  words  in  which  she 
would  arrange  her  sentences.  But  always  in  her  thoughts 
she  had  had  a  certain  picture  of  her  mother  before  her.  She 
had  seen  an  old  woman,  old  as  she  had  been  on  that  night 


THE  CEKEMONY  413 

when  she  had  slept  in  Katherine's  arms,  old  as  she  had  been 
at  that  moment  when  Katherine  had  first  told  her  of  her  en- 
gagement to  Philip.  And  now  she  thought  this  old  woman 
would  face  her,  maintaining  her  pride  but  nevertheless  ready, 
after  the  separation  of  these  weeks,  to  break  down  before  the 
vision  of  Katherine's  own  submission. 

Katherine  had  always  thought :  "Dear  Mother.  We  must 
have  one  another.  She'll  feel  that  now.  She'll  see  that  I'm 
exactly  the  same.  ..." 

How  different  from  her  dreams  was  this  figure.  Her 
mother  seemed  to-day  younger  than  Katherine  had  ever 
known  her.  She  stood  there,  tall,  stern,  straight,  the  solidity 
of  her  body  impenetrable,  inaccessible  to  all  tenderness, 
scornful  of  all  embraces.  She  was  young,  yes,  and  stronger. 

At  the  first  sight  of  Katherine  she  had  moved  back  as 
though  she  would  leave  the  room.  Then  she  stayed  by  the 
door.  She  was  perfectly  composed. 

"Why  have  you  come  ?"  she  said. 

At  the  cold  indifference  of  that  voice  Katherine  felt  a  little 
pulse  of  anger  beat,  far  away,  in  the  very  heart  of  her  tender- 
ness. 

She  moved  forward  with  a  little  gesture. 

"Mother,  I  had  to  come.  It's  Grandfather's  birthday.  I 
couldn't  believe  that  after  all  these  weeks  you  wouldn't  be 
willing  to  see  me." 

She  stopped.     Her  mother  said  nothing. 

Katherine  came  nearer.  "I'm  sorry — terribly  sorry — if  I 
did  what  hurt  you.  I  felt  at  the  time  that  it  was  the  only 
thing  to  do.  Phil  was  so  miserable,  and  I  know  that  it  was 
all  for  my  sake.  It  wasn't  fair  to  let  him  go  on  like  that 
when  I  could  prevent  it.  You  didn't  understand  him.  He 
didn't  understand  you.  But  never,  for  a  single  instant,  did 
my  love  for  you  change.  It  never  has.  It  never  will. 
Mother  dear,  you  believe  that — you  must  believe  that." 

Did  Mrs.  Trenchard  have  then  for  a  moment  a  vision  of 
the  things  that  she  might  still  do  with  life  ?  With  her  eyes, 


414  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

during  these  weeks,  she  had  seen  not  Katherine  but  her  own 
determination  to  vindicate  her  stability,  the  stability  of  all 
her  standards,  against  every  attack.  They  said  that  the 
world  was  changing.  She  at  least  could  show  them  that  she 
would  not  change.  Even  though,  in  her  own  house,  that  revo- 
lution had  occurred  about  which  she  had  been  warned,  she 
would  show  them  that  she  remained,  through  it  all,  stable, 
unconquered. 

Katherine  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy.  Well,  she  would 
fasten  her  life  to  some  other  anchor  then.  It  should  be  as 
though  Katherine  and  Katherine's  love  had  never  existed. 
There  was  offered  her  now  her  last  chance.  One  word  and 
she  would  be  part  of  the  new  world.  One  word  .  .  . 

She  may  for  an  instant  have  had  her  vision.  The  mo- 
ment passed.  She  saw  only  her  own  determined  invinci- 
bility. 

"You  had  your  choice,  Katherine,"  she  said.  "You  made 
it.  You  broke  your  word  to  us.  You  left  us  without  justi- 
fication. You  have  killed  your  Grandfather.  You  have 
shown  that  our  love  and  care  for  you  during  all  these  years 
has  gone  for  nothing  at  all." 

Katherine  flushed.  "I  have  not  shown  that — I.  ..." 
She  looked  as  though  she  would  cry.  Her  lips  trembled. 
She  struggled  to  compose  her  voice — then  at  last  went  on 
firmly: 

"Mother — perhaps  I  was  wrong.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
did.  It  wasn't  for  myself — it  was  for  Philip.  It  isn't  true 
that  I  didn't  think  of  you  all.  Mother,  let  me  see  Grand- 
father— only  for  a  moment.  He  will  forgive  me.  I  know 
—I  know." 

"He  has  forbidden  us  to  mention  your  name  to  him." 

"But  if  he  sees  me — " 

"He  is  resolved  never  to  see  you  again." 

"But  what  did  I  do  ?  If  I  speak  to  him,  if  I  kiss  him — I 
must  go  to  him.  It's  his  birthday,  I've  got  a  present — " 

"He  is  too  ill  to  see  you."    This  perhaps  had  moved  her, 


THE  CEREMONY  415 

because  she  went  on  swiftly :  "Katherine,  what  is  the  use  of 
this  ?  It  hurts  both  of  us.  It  can  do  no  good.  You  acted 
as  you  thought  right.  It  seemed  to  show  me  that  you  had 
no  care  for  me  after  all  these  years.  It  shook  all  my  confi- 
dence. That  can  never  be  between  us  again,  and  I  could 
not,  I  think,  in  any  way  follow  your  new  life.  I  could  never 
forget,  and  you  have  now  friends  and  interests  that  must 
exclude  me.  If  we  meet  what  can  we  have  now  in  common  ? 
If  I  had  loved  you  less,  perhaps  it  would  be  possible,  but  as  it 
is — no." 

Katherine  had  dried  her  tears. 

They  looked  at  one  another.  Katherine  bowed  her  head. 
She  had  still  to  bite  her  lips  that  she  might  not  cry,  but  she 
looked  very  proud. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  very  softly,  "that  one  day  you  will 
want — you  will  feel —  At  least  I  shall  not  change.  I  will 
come  whenever  you  want  me.  I  will  always  care  the  same. 
One  day  I  will  come  back,  Mother  dear." 

Her  mother  said  only: 

"It  is  better  that  we  should  not  meet." 

Katherine  walked  to  the  door.  As  she  passed  her  mother 
she  looked  at  her.  Her  eyes  made  one  last  prayer — then 
they  were  veiled. 

She  left  the  house. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Henry  came  into  the  room,  and 
found  his  Mother  seated  at  her  desk,  plans  and  papers  in 
front  of  her.  He  could  hear  her  saying  to  herself : 

"Fifteen — by  fourteen.  .  .  .  The  rockery  there — Five 
steps,  then  the  door.  .  .  .  Fifteen  pounds  four  shillings  and 
sixpence.  ..." 

Katherine  was  not  there.  He  knew  that  she  had  been  re- 
jected. His  mother  showed  no  signs  of  discomposure. 
Their  interview  must  have  been  very  short. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  there,  looking  out.     In 


416  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

a  moment  Rocket  would  come  and  draw  the  blinds.  Rundle 
Square  swam  in  the  last  golden  light. 

Tiny  flakes  of  colour  spun  across  the  pale  blue  that  was 
almost  white.  They  seemed  to  whirl  before  Henry's  eyes. 

He  was  sorry,  terribly  sorry,  that  Katherine  had  failed, 
but  he  was  filled  to-day  with  a  triumphant  sense  of  the  glory 
and  promise  of  life.  He  had  been  liberated,  and  Katherine 
had  been  liberated.  Freedom,  with  its  assurances  for  all 
the  world,  flamed  across  the  darkening  skies.  Life  seemed 
endless:  its  beckoning  drama  called  to  him.  The  anticipa- 
tion of  the  glory  of  life  caught  him  by  the  throat  so  that  he 
could  scarcely  breathe.  .  .  . 

At  that  moment  in  the  upstairs  room  old  Mr.  Trenchard, 
suddenly  struggling  for  breath,  tried  to  call  out,  failed,  fell 
back,  on  to  his  pillow,  dead. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


COC.  OB. 


APR  2  4  1973" 

APR  a  180  14DAY 
2  3  APR  '80  RECCL 


1 1  JAN  '85  REG 


Book  Slip-25m-9,'60CB2986s4)4280 


A     001  193  448     6 


UCLA-College  Library 

PR6045Wl6gr 


005  769  292  3 


College 
Library 

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